


Night Changes

by colourexplosion



Series: night changes [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Horror, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flirting, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychic Abilities, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry slips and nearly knocks his head on the tile wall. The bottles of shampoo and bodywash that line the shower tumble down as he catches himself, one of them managing to land right on the top of his foot. Fuck, that hurt. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Fuck, he <b>loves Louis</b>. </i></p><p>  <i>Wait, of course he loves Louis. What’s not to love? He’s kind and he’s funny and he’s patient with Harry always and he’s always been there when Harry needed him. Well, not tonight, but Harry hadn’t specifically said to him that he needed him and whatever — okay. Of course he loves Louis. That doesn’t mean he’s <b>in</b> love with Louis. </i></p><p>  <i><b>But I am in love with Louis,</b> he thinks, and curses as his shampoo runs into his eyes.</i></p><p>Or, Louis and Harry are soulmates. (With a twist.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> First off, before I say anything else, I need to say thank you to [Kate](http://wickershire.tumblr.com), who not only originally wrote part of this fic with me (and contributed the greatest joke/my favorite part) but who also put up with me finishing it over the last few months. She's patient and kind and much nicer than I deserve always and this fic wouldn't exist in a multitude of ways without her so THANK YOU. 
> 
> Regarding the tags for this fic -- particularly the **minor character death** and **body horror** : the death is offscreen and is not one of the boys or their family members. The body horror refers to some of the descriptions of the werewolf transformations. 
> 
> Throughout the fic you will find some WONDERFUL art by [wade](http://kingsoftheimpossible.tumblr.com), who is also the greatest. 
> 
> Anyway, this is just for fun and I don't own anything and please don't send this to anyone connected with the band. Enjoy and thanks!

Moving out is both much easier and much more grueling than Harry expected. It’s grueling in that he has to move all of his belongings up and down about twenty flights of narrow stairs in the span of five hours, but it’s easy to write the note that he and Zayn leave for their former flatmates when they’re all done. 

_Found a different place,_ he’d written. _Much better for everyone this way. Thanks!_

Zayn adorned it with two stick figures flipping the V. They’d taped it to the front door, along with their keys, and left. Harry doesn’t regret a single thing. 

“This is gonna be so much better Zayn, I can feel it,” Harry says, spinning around in Zayn’s new room. It’s about five times bigger than the one they’d shared and has these beautiful windows that look out into the little garden. It’s a nice room, but as big as it is, it still makes Harry feel a little too claustrophobic. He’s much happier with sleeping in the little nook on his futon. He’s never been much for privacy. 

Zayn flops onto his bed, eyes closing and a peaceful sort of smile stretching across his face. “Think you’re right,” he says. He opens one eye to look at Harry. “Got a nice feeling about it.”  
Harry beams back at him. He appreciates that Zayn follows his instincts too. It’s important that friends be on the same page, and Harry doesn’t know how well he’d be able to handle someone who doesn’t trust their own gut. 

He crawls into Zayn’s bed, snuggling up next to him and inhaling deeply. Zayn hates it when Harry sniffs him, he knows, but it’s just a thing Harry feels like he has to do. It calms him down to smell something familiar. Makes something settle in his chest. He’s always been that way, ever since he was little. His mum’s always said it’s his keen instincts, and that he should trust them no matter what. In fact, she’d said it to him right before he’d left for uni at Leeds. The smell of her perfume was still fresh in his mind two weeks in, when he’d decided that he and Zayn weren’t going to make it with their old flatmates. 

So, Harry scoured the housing board and the internet for someone willing to take in two strays, and he’d almost given up hope when someone had finally e-mailed him back that their room was still vacant. 

Convincing Zayn had been a whole different battle — one that Harry only won by promising to do Zayn’s laundry for the rest of term — and then they’d met Liam and everything sort of just fell into place. The house isn’t very big, but it’s got high ceilings and lots of windows and a small garden out back that leads into some woods. It’s also got a great roof for Harry’s telescope, which he needs to do his astronomy homework, so. Yeah. Much better than their previous flat. 

They lay peacefully for a few minutes, Zayn running a hand through Harry’s curls and down his back until Harry’s eyelids go heavy. 

“M’sleepy.” He mumbles it against Zayn’s shirt, making a small displeased noise when Zayn laughs at him. That’s just rude, really. 

“Come on, up you get.” Zayn pushes at Harry’s shoulder until he makes another noise and sits up, frowning deeply. 

“Zayn, I wanna sleep.” 

“Then sleep in your own bed, Haz, c’mon,” Zayn says, shoving gently at him until he’s standing. “Gotta make it at least one night on your own before you sleep in here.” 

Harry pouts but goes anyway. He knows Zayn’s right. They moved for a reason, and that was to give them both more space to like, live, but Harry really hates sleeping alone. It’s fine, though. He supposes he can suffer a few nights for Zayn. 

He shuffles into his little nook and climbs onto the futon, circling around it a few times to flatten out the lumps. He flops down on his stomach, stretched diagonally across it and pulls his duvet over himself. He falls asleep in minutes, the exhaustion from the day washing over him all at once. 

He wakes only a few hours later with a crick in his neck and a terrible need to wee. Harry groans as he gets up from the futon, his back cracking when he stretches and making him groan again. It’s dark all around him, the only light coming in through the windows. It seems brighter than usual, and Harry can’t remember seeing any lamps out back. It must almost be the full moon or something. 

He emerges from the loo, still rubbing at his back and neck, and pouts at the futon. He can’t sleep on it again, or he won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Besides, he’s not tired anymore. He sits down heavily, the futon squeaking loudly under his weight. He ought to just read a book or something, but he doesn’t want to turn on a light and wake anyone up. He also doesn’t want to dig through his stuff for something to do, so he looks helplessly around the room until his eyes rest on his telescope — the first thing he unpacked — and he remembers the window he’d seen while touring the house with Zayn, the one that had been painted shut. 

Scrambling over the bed, Harry grabs the old brass telescope and puts it into its case, slinging it over his shoulder. He gets his hands under the pane and lifts, wincing when it makes a horrendous screeching sound. Zayn sleeps like the dead, Harry knows, but he’s not sure about Liam. He’d hate to wake his new flatmate up. 

He gives a look around the room and, once satisfied that he’s not disturbed anyone, he clambers out of it and up onto the roof, feeling immediately at ease in the cool night air. He methodically sets his telescope up and looks up at the sky.

Harry’s always loved looking at the moon. It’s so big and beautiful most of the time, and holds such a strange amount of power over the Earth. Like, how close it is affects tide levels and stuff, right? So if the moon gets too close thousands of people could die in a tsunami or something. It’s not really a pleasant thought, but it is pretty awe-inspiring. He hums to himself a bit as he looks through the eyepiece, maneuvering the telescope around to search for different planets. 

He’s just found Venus when the sound of a window being pushed up startles him and he stands quickly, looking for somewhere to hide. Except, he’s on a roof so he’s effectively out in the open, so that doesn’t even make sense. 

A guy climbs up over the ledge, just as Harry had done a few minutes before. He hoists himself up, brushing off his clothes before looking up to make eye contact with Harry. Harry feels like he might fall off the roof. He’s beautiful, is the thing. This man. Short but authoritative somehow; his posture confident and his gaze piercing. Harry feels breathless all of a sudden, and blinks a few times, trying to get a hold of himself.

The stranger doesn’t say anything, just looks at Harry like he’s sizing him up, and Harry becomes uncomfortably aware of just _how_ close he is to the edge of the roof. 

“Um,” he says, as eloquent as ever. “Can I help you?”

The bloke raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “I should ask you the same thing.”

Harry frowns. Generally speaking, he doesn’t expect strangers to be smart-arsed with him in the middle of the night. “You’re on my roof.”

“No, you’re on my roof.”

Oh. “You must be Louis.” The guy does nothing to acknowledge him. He’s so guarded, is all. Harry doesn’t quite understand it. But then again, Harry greets every new person like an eager puppy. “I’m Harry, one of your new flatmates.”

The guy looks at him for a moment more before dropping his arms to his sides. He seems to deflate, a bit, like a sad balloon. He looks as tired as Harry feels. “You’re one of the strays Liam found?” 

“Suppose so,” Harry says with a nod. “You’re Louis?”

“I’m Louis,” he confirms, holding out a hand to shake. 

Harry takes it, giving Louis his best grin. “Lovely to meet you.” 

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Louis says wryly, his lips pressed together in a way that make Harry think he might be trying not to smile. He’s not sure why, but it makes Harry feel funny inside, a bit warm in his chest even though the night air is cool and sharp. 

It takes a moment before Harry realizes he’s just been standing there staring without having said anything. 

“I’m um, looking at stuff, if you want to like, join me,” he says, cheeks flushing when Louis raises an eyebrow at him. He glances to the telescope and up to the sky.

“Suppose I could give it a go,” he says, and Harry grins. 

“Brilliant,” he says, and adjusts the telescope for a better view of Venus.

— 

Harry settles into a routine nicely. He wakes up at six for his run, and gets back, showers and has breakfast and is out the door by nine to catch the bus for his first class. He spends most of the day on campus, and comes back after his last class to make dinner. The first two days he’d thought been the only one in the house so when he’d made his dinner, he only made enough for himself. 

Then, Louis had shuffled out of his room on the second night, sleep-rumpled and soft, and blinked at Harry when he’d offered him a bite and said, voice raspy in a way that made Harry’s knees weak, “Are you an angel?” 

Harry had laughed it off and then felt guilty that he hadn’t made Louis anything. So, the third night he made sure to make enough for two, and the fourth night, and now, the fifth, Friday, he’s making his favorite pasta dish in celebration of a good week. He even bought some wine on the way home.

Harry fills a pot with water and a dash of salt and has just put it on to boil as Louis, right on time, shuffles into the kitchen. Louis works nights, Harry knows, a terrible 7pm to 3am shift. Usually he stays up after that, too, until about 10am, when it’s lights out. Louis says that most days he wakes up for lunch and then goes back to sleep. Harry doesn’t really believe him.

“What’s on tonight, then?” Louis asks, his voice that perfect sleepy rasp that makes Harry’s spine tingle. 

“Spicy chicken pesto with penne pasta,” Harry says, opening a drawer to get a knife to cut the chicken. 

Louis makes a soft noise behind him, one that Harry takes to mean that he’s impressed, and shuffles over to the stove, peering at it, before shuffling over to Harry to lean his head against Harry’s shoulder briefly. That’s something that Harry’s gotten used to as well. Louis is very tactile, and while Harry has always been a cuddler, he’s never met anyone as touchy-feely as Louis. Not that it’s a bad thing. No, Harry really enjoys it, actually. He lets himself lean back into the contact for as long as it’s there, clearing his throat when Louis leans away to pick up the jar of pesto. 

“What, you didn’t make it yourself?” 

Harry makes a face at him, gathering up the chicken and dropping it into a pan with oil in the bottom. “How d’you know I don’t own the company?” 

Louis snorts and sets the jar down. “Because you wouldn’t be living here.” Louis looks up at him, giving him a serene-looking smile. Harry calls it his Pleased Puppy smile, because he looks a bit like a puppy getting its ears scratched. “Not that I don’t love your company.” 

“Please,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He flips the chicken over and puts the lid on and turns to lean against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling a stare at Louis. “You only like me because I cook for you.” 

“True,” Louis grins. “And you pay rent.” 

“And I pay rent,” Harry nods. They look at each other for a moment, something odd in the air between them before Harry scoffs at himself and turns away, fussing with the pots and pans and trying to open the jar of pesto. 

He’s being ridiculous, he knows. He’s been here a week. He can’t instantly be best friends with everyone, but if Louis doesn’t want him here…

“Mmph, jesus —” he grunts, trying to open the jar. It must be stuck or something though, because he can’t get it to budge. His cheeks heat, oddly embarrassed to be struggling in front of Louis, who’s watching him with an amused twist to his mouth. 

“Here, let me,” he says, holding his hand out for the jar. Harry looks at him dubiously, and then at the jar. There’s no way he’ll be able to open it if Harry can’t. 

“Sure,” Harry says, depositing it in Louis’ hand. Louis flashes a grin at him and taps the jar on the counter twice, hard, and twists the lid off, easy as fucking anything. Harry’s mouth drops open. 

“There you are,” Louis says sweetly, passing the open jar and lid to Harry. Harry gapes down at it, betrayed. 

“Well, I loosened it for you,” he says, a beat too late. Louis laughs at him. 

“Of course you did, love,” Louis says, hopping up onto the work surface as Harry putters around and finishes dinner. 

Harry can feel Louis’ gaze on him the whole time, hoping that the flush on the back of his neck isn’t too noticeable. Louis doesn’t mention it, though, just keeps watching as Harry plates their food and opens the bottle of wine. It’s not strange for Louis to go silent while watching Harry cook — Harry’s fairly certain it has something to do with Louis’ waking up process — but he gets flustered every time. There’s just something about Louis that makes his skin prickle. It’s more than attraction, Harry knows. Obviously there’s attraction, because Louis is probably the most beautiful person Harry’s ever met (yes, including Zayn) and he’d definitely like to hit that. He won’t, because it’d get messy with the whole living situation, but he really, really wants to. 

No, there’s something else, something about the way Louis’ gaze will linger a hair too long on Harry’s mouth as he speaks or his hands as he does something. He’s certain that Louis would be on board the bang train, but still. He can’t fuck up Zayn’s housing again just because he can’t keep it in his pants. Besides, Louis’ probably not as good at sex as Harry imagines. Or something. Anyway. 

Harry holds up the bottle of wine. “Want some? Or do you have work?” 

Louis grins. “Actually, dear Harold —” 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

“— I do not have work tonight. Which means,” Louis says, sliding off the counter and ignoring Harry’s protests completely, “we’re going to play a game.”

Harry goes still. “A game?” 

“A game,” Louis nods sagely. “With the wine.”

“Oh.” This isn’t going to end well. Harry can feel it. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Louis puts his hands on his hips, staring up at Harry like he can’t believe what he’s just said. Louis is really very tiny, and he shouldn’t look at all intimidating, and yet Harry finds himself slouching in submission anyway. He can’t help it; he’s a people pleaser. “Just okay, Harry?”

“Okay I’ll play a game with you,” Harry ventures, but Louis only tuts at him and grabs the wine. 

Louis gestures to the plates. “You take those, I’ll take care of this.”

Harry does so without a word, knowing that whatever Louis has planned, as ill-guided as it may turn out to be, should be fun. Harry’s learned that about him in the past week, at least. Louis is excellent at hatching master plans and he’s even better at following through with them. On his second night in the house, Harry had witnessed Louis replace Liam’s favorite cereal with a raisin bran and all the regular milk with unsweetened almond milk. Apparently, Liam has something of a sweet tooth, so when he’d woken up the next morning and figured it out, he’d dumped a glass of ice water on Louis’ face. Louis had said later that it was worth it, but Harry doesn’t really understand that. He hadn’t asked. 

He sets the food on the small table in the breakfast nook of the kitchen. He’s fairly certain he and Louis are the only ones who ever eat here, but he likes it that way. Likes having a space that’s just theirs. 

Louis enters a few moments later with two large wine glasses in one hand and the bottle stuck under his arm. He plops himself down in a chair and sets the wine glasses down, holding the bottle between his thighs. God, Louis’ thighs. Harry could stare at them all day. He could probably admire all of Louis for a whole day. He probably shouldn’t do that, though, because he has things to do. He can’t really remember them right now, but he’s certain he does. Louis smirks at him when he looks up, like he knows exactly what Harry was thinking. 

Harry flushes, his voice coming out a hair too rough for him to play it off as innocent. “What game are we playing?” 

Louis hums, grabbing the corkscrew from the table and twisting it into the cork. It’s one of the ones that waiters use, just the spirally bit and a lever, and Harry can’t deny that he gets distracted by the sight of one of Louis’ slim hands wrapped around the neck of the bottle and the other expertly twisting the corkscrew. He can feel himself staring like a creep as Louis maneuvers, lifting the lever and fitting it to the rim of the bottle, but he can’t look away. Louis’ forearm strains as he works the cork out, and Harry feels like he might be gaping a bit. He’s so embarrassing. 

The soft _pop!_ of the cork makes Harry jump, and he shakes himself out of his daze before Louis looks up, grinning at him. 

“Did you say something?” Louis asks, grabbing a glass and tilting it to pour the wine in. He fills it three quarters of the way and slides it over to Harry, who takes a big sniff of it. Drinking this with Louis is either going to be a very good choice or a fucking awful one. 

“Just asked what the game was,” he says, watching as Louis sets his own full glass on the table. 

“Oh. Two Truths and a Lie.” 

Harry feels his stomach sink. He’s always been awful at this game, mostly because he’s a terrible liar and always gets drunk first. He’s also incapable of figuring out when people are lying to him. He’s just too trusting, or something. Usually it ends in people making fun of him for being gullible, which always makes him feel naive, and he’d hate to feel that way in front of Louis. Or because of Louis. 

“Okay,” Harry says, shifting in his seat. He takes a bite of his food to stall. “You first.” 

He can feel Louis’ gaze on him, and it only makes him shift again, uncomfortable. It passes when Louis clears his throat. Harry looks up to find him smiling. 

“I have six siblings,” he says, holding up one finger. “I got all A*s on my A levels. I haven’t worn socks since my first year of uni.” 

“Um.” God, how is Harry supposed to know? He’s heard Louis talk a lot about his family, so he knows the first must be true. They haven’t really talked about school though, other than the fact that Harry’s attending Leeds, so he doesn’t know. You’d have to be smart to get through a nursing programme, wouldn’t you? And Louis always seems to have an answer for Harry’s random questions, so maybe he did ace his A levels. He takes a breath.

“You haven’t worn socks since uni.” 

Louis grins. Something about it seems predatory. “Take a drink, dear Harold.” 

“What?” No way. “You really haven’t worn socks since uni? Even once?” 

Louis shakes his head, looking a bit like he’s about to laugh. Harry pouts, and takes a drink.  
“You didn’t ace your A levels, then?”

“No,” Louis says, expression dimming a bit. “Failed them all the first time. Had to retake them, actually.” He scratches a hand through his hair and shrugs. “It happens. Come on, your turn.” 

“Right,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “Um. Once I broke my toe trying to sneak upstairs after curfew. I stole a library book. One time my sister caught me kissing her boyfriend.” 

Louis’ eyes widen. “Wow,” he says, and Harry ducks his head, taking a bite of his food. “I don’t even know what to say. All of those sound like lies.” 

Harry frowns at him.

“All right, all right,” Louis laughs. “You’re not exactly a paradigm of grace, so that one’s probably true. I don’t think you could steal anything, and same for kissing someone else’s boyfriend. But that last one is so outrageous. That has to be it.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “That’s your answer?” 

“Final answer. There is no way you kissed your sister’s boyfriend.” 

Harry shrugs. “You’ve got to take a drink, then.” 

“Harold!” Louis’ eyes go wide. He looks scandalized, and the fact that Harry’s put that expression on his face is making him a little proud. “You didn’t!” 

“I’ve never broken a bone,” he answers, biting his lip to keep from smiling. 

“I can’t believe it,” Louis murmurs into his glass, “My Harry, a home wrecker.” 

Harry flushes but smiles, pleased. Louis sounds proud and fond and happy, and Harry can’t believe he’s managed to fool someone, finally. The game continues like that, until their plates are cleared and their glasses are empty. Louis refills them and halfway through the second glass Harry’s feeling pleasantly relaxed and knows a number of things about Louis. Like that Louis retook his A levels and got into his first choice uni, and that he helped his mum raise his four little sisters, and that he feels badly that he doesn’t get to see the newest babies often enough. He knows that Louis hates socks and hates wearing clothes that aren’t scrubs or sweatpants, and that more than once he’s been mistaken for a homeless man when he went out to get a pack of cigs at the end of his shift. 

Harry doesn’t have as many funny stories as Louis does, but he’d lived an oddly sort of sheltered life. He grew up in a small town and had an afterschool job as a baker’s assistant. Louis didn’t believe that Harry used to be on the diving team or that he wanted to be a lawyer before settling on astronomy. 

“Okay,” Harry says, looking into his wine. He’s running out of true things to use that aren’t like, overly sexual or sad or just a hair too personal. Well, fuck it. That’s the point of this, right? To get to know each other. “I have never scored a goal whilst playing football. I’ve touched a dolphin. My dad left one day when I was seven and didn’t come back.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything. Harry stares into his glass for as long as he can, until the tension is too much, and he has to look up, trying to think of a joke to play it off. Louis’ just looking at him though, a sort of softness to his expression that makes Harry’s chest twist. It’s not pity, exactly, but a slight sadness. Understanding, maybe. They look at each other for a moment, the table seeming endless between them, and Louis clears his throat. 

“You’ve never touched a dolphin,” Louis says. Harry takes a drink. There’s another moment of silence before Louis speaks again. 

“I don’t know how to swim. I almost played football professionally. My dad left after I came out.”

Harry looks into his glass again. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t really know why. Louis doesn’t sound sad about it, in the same way Harry doesn’t feel sad about his own father leaving. It’s just something that happened, and obviously something that happens to other people. 

He looks up again when he feels Louis’ foot hook around his calf. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, making very direct eye contact. Harry feels like Louis means he shouldn’t feel bad for more than just ruining the game, but Louis doesn’t say anything else. 

“I’m bored and stuffed,” he says instead, leaning back in his chair and patting his belly. Harry wants to bury his face in the softness there, and he’s not really sure why. He’d also like to stick his face in Louis’ neck and stay there forever, but that’s also not normal and not something he should say aloud. “Thanks for dinner, love.” 

“No problem,” Harry says, proud that he manages not to melt into a pile of goo at Louis’ endearment. “Better than watching you eat two week old pizza.” 

That earns him a sharp kick to the shin. “For that, you’ve got to wash out the wine glasses,” Louis says, standing and picking up both of their plates. “And then you’re going to help me dye all of Liam’s lotion blue.” 

Harry sits up, pretending to consider it for a moment. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says. Louis beams at him, and Harry can’t help but smile back. 

— 

At first when Liam had said he’d found two new flatmates, Louis was skeptical. He insisted that they didn’t need them, that they could pay for the brownstone themselves just fine — and they could, what with Louis’ wages and Liam’s side jobs — and that adding more people would just make it feel crowded. Liam had pouted and Louis had griped and griped about it until Liam had said, “Look, I know _we_ don’t need it, but they might.” 

And wasn’t it just fucking like Liam to be all heroic about the fact that they had a spare room and nook upstairs. 

Louis relented and Liam met two blokes — Louis should have known better than to let Liam actually meet them — and the next day he’d insisted that he’d “had a feeling” about them. The thing about Liam’s feelings is that they usually aren’t wrong. As in, if Liam had a feeling something would happen a certain way, more often than not, that’s how it happened. 

Louis calls him psychic. Liam just calls it intuition. 

In any case, the next week Louis found himself with two new flatmates and a smug best friend. 

“I told you you’d like them,” Liam says from his spot on the couch. Louis’ just woken up from his nap and pulled the ham and egg sandwich Harry had made for him from the fridge. He must’ve looked as extraordinarily pleased as he felt as he ate it. 

“Fuck off,” Louis says, “Your dick still blue?” 

Liam sends him a look that says, _it wasn’t blue in the first place,_ which Louis knows is a lie. He laughs and takes another bite of his sandwich, eyes closing in bliss. 

“You do though, right? Like them?” Liam sounds hesitant, like he gets whenever he’s predicted something correctly and thinks Louis might get annoyed about it. He’s very odd about free will, Liam is. But Louis supposes if he’d grown up knowing what was going to happen, he’d feel the same way. 

“Of course I do,” Louis says, waving a hand. “It’s not like your lazy arse makes me lunch before you leave.” 

Liam rolls his eyes. “Louis, you know what I mean.” 

Louis sighs and throws himself down into the armchair. “Yes, Liam. I like the two adorable puppies you found on the side of the road and brought home.”

“Think they might object to being called puppies,” Liam says. 

“It’s a good thing they’re not here then, isn’t it?” 

“I’m just saying, there’s no need to compare them to animals.” 

Louis sighs. “Liam?” 

“Yes?” 

“Shut up.”

Liam makes another face but acquiesces, turning his attention back to the television. It’s sort of an exercise in futility, but Liam’s got to get his kicks somehow, apparently. Louis wouldn’t begrudge him that. 

Louis finishes off his sandwich, feeling full and satisfied as the next programme starts. He curls up in his chair, head resting on the arm, dozing peacefully. 

“You’ll mess up your neck,” a voice says, and Louis blinks his eyes open, smiling up at Zayn. Zayn’s a good guy. Quiet, but it suits him. Like he’s not shy, just thoughtful, and he always says what he means and that’s something Louis appreciates in a person. 

“I’ll be fine,” he insists, sitting up as Zayn takes a seat. He hasn’t seen Zayn much in the week he’s lived here, but Louis has the world’s stupidest schedule, so he figures that’s normal. Still, he’s not going to pass up an opportunity to get to know him. “No class today?” 

“It was cancelled,” Zayn says, taking a seat on the now empty couch. Liam must have left sometime while Louis was dozing. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“That was always my favorite part of uni, classes getting cancelled.” Louis stretches out a bit, his back cracking. He lets out a breath of relief. Zayn laughs at him. “What?” 

“S’just, you and Harry, always falling asleep in weird places,” Zayn says, shrugging. 

Louis snorts. “I literally found you asleep on the stairs last night.” 

Zayn shrugs. “I’m just saying. You and Harry have like, a thing about it.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Louis honestly doesn’t. He’ll fall asleep on the couch sometimes, or the chair, but usually he sleeps in his bed. Like a normal person. Maybe Zayn’s so used to falling asleep on the floor that he forgets it’s not actually where most people sleep. “Are you sure your perception isn’t skewed?” 

“Fair,” Zayn laughs, and then shakes his head. “I dunno, it just seems like you’re always both falling asleep in places people like to be. Or open places, like.” 

Louis frowns. 

“Like, you’re always out here napping or you’ve got the door to your room open. God knows Harry can’t sleep in a small room alone. Gets all restless and weird.”

Huh, Louis hadn’t noticed. He picks at a loose thread on his chair. “Does he?”

“Yeah. If he weren’t in my bed every night, he’d probably have gone crazy by now.”

Louis freezes. He’d known Zayn and Harry had lived together previously, but for some reason he thought they were just friends. They act like friends, though Harry does have a tendency to be overly cuddly with him. But Louis just thought that was how Harry was. And he’d thought that maybe Harry had been flirting with him, especially during their dinner on Friday, but. Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds every night. Right? Maybe they do. 

“Well, he’s special, isn’t he?” Louis says finally, clearing his throat awkwardly. Zayn glances over at him, raising an eyebrow and looks away. 

“He definitely is,” Zayn says eventually, and then, before it can get even more awkward, “Don’t you have to be at work in like, half an hour?” 

“Oh shit,” Louis says, jumping up. He hurries out of the room before Zayn can say anything else, and he pushes their conversation from his mind. No use in thinking about it. 

—

Except Louis can’t stop thinking about it. All he can do is think about it. He can’t help but imagine both Harry and Zayn crammed into the bed in the room upstairs, how they’d look all tangled together and their faces peaceful in sleep as he pulls on his scrubs. He almost rear-ends someone during his commute because he can’t stop thinking about Harry curled around Zayn’s back with his face pressed to Zayn’s neck and one of his huge hands splayed on Zayn’s chest. He can’t stop thinking about how Zayn gets more of Harry than Louis ever will, and he can’t understand why it bothers him so fucking much. 

Obviously he likes Harry. Harry’s a good bloke. He’s funny, he cooks basically all of Louis’ food for him even though he doesn’t have to. He listens when Louis wants to rant about work and he never hesitates to do the same. It’s just — they have a real connection, Louis thinks, and that’s it. 

He knows it could be a really great friendship, but he doesn’t want something like a jealous boyfriend to get in the way. Not that Zayn’s ever acted jealous, but still. Louis has a tendency to monopolize people’s attention, so if it’s not a problem now it’ll probably be one later. And Louis hates that, hates that people have to choose between having friends and having romantic relationships because he wants to be Harry’s friend, and he’d hate to cause problems or something. And, selfishly, he doesn’t like the idea of sharing him. Which absolutely doesn’t make sense, because he’s known him all of a week. 

God, he’s really got to get his head sorted. 

Work, thankfully, provides an excellent eight hour distraction. He doesn’t have time to think about Harry and Zayn because he’s too busy making sure the kids on his floor are well tended to. They’re sick and they’re kids, and Louis is enough of a professional that he can set aside his stupid inner turmoil to provide them with what they deserve. 

By the time his shift’s ended, he’s exhausted. Too exhausted to think about why he cares how Harry lives his life. It’s not as if Louis would even make a move if Harry were single. He’s attracted to him, obviously, because how could he not be, but Louis isn’t cut out for relationships. All the ones he’s ever been in have failed miserably and it’s not worth it to put in the effort for something that’s only going to end badly. He prefers flings, but everyone knows you can’t have a fling with a housemate. Besides, Harry’s too good for Louis’ baggage. He deserves someone great, and if Zayn is that person then Zayn is that person. 

He’s packing up his stuff at his locker when someone calls his name. He looks up to find Nick, another nurse on the floor, and smiles. Nick’s a nice bloke, and exactly the sort of person who’s okay with flings. Louis knows that firsthand. He raises an eyebrow as Nick slinks over, leaning against the lockers. 

“Fancy a drink, Tomlinson?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Don’t you mean, ‘fancy a tumble in my sheets’?” 

“Maybe,” Nick shrugs, unphased. “But we could also have a drink first.” 

Louis closes his locker and leans against it, mirroring Nick. He considers it for a moment. It’d be good, definitely, because it always is with Nick, and it’s been awhile since Louis’ had a good mutual orgasm. And it’s not like he has any prospects. Still, something about it doesn’t sit right with him, which is a damn shame. 

“Think I want to sleep in my own bed tonight, but thanks,” he says, pushing off the lockers and putting his jacket on. Nick shrugs again. 

“Suit yourself, but you know where to find me.” 

Louis waves him off and makes his way home, forgoing his shuffle into the kitchen for his nightly snack for a shuffle to his bedroom instead. He just needs to sleep. Sleep solves everything. 

He’s changing into his joggers when he hears a soft knock on the door. He looks up to find Harry, and can’t help but smile at him. There’s just something about Harry’s sweet, earnest eyes that cuts through all of Louis’ bullshit. 

“Hi, love,” he says, pulling up his joggers and tugging off his scrub top, leaving him in just a vest. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

“No,” Harry answers, sounding a bit dazed. He takes a step into the room. Louis sits on his bed and pats the space next to him. Harry scurries over and hops on, curling his legs under himself and facing Louis. “Um. No. Zayn had to work late in the studio, or something.”

Louis nods. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, because he doesn’t know if would be irrelevant and awkward to bring it up or not. But he has to know for sure. “So, you and Zayn are a thing, then?” 

Harry furrows his brow and tilts his head. It’s stupidly cute, like a puppy trying to hear what its owner is saying. Louis will not be endeared by it. He won’t. 

“No,” Harry says slowly, brows still pinched. Louis taps his own knee. 

“But you sleep in his bed.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you’re not together.” 

“No.” 

Louis frowns. “Which is it? No you’re not together or yes you are together?” 

Harry huffs. “No, we’re not together. Yes, I sleep in his bed, but only because like — ” He pauses, mouth twisting up like it does when he’s not sure what to say. God, why can Louis recognize that? They’ve barely lived together two weeks.

“Because,” Louis says, waiting patiently. If it were anyone else, he probably would’ve snapped at them to hurry up. Harry just takes a little longer than most, he knows. He can wait. 

Harry shrugs and looks down at the duvet, fingers pulling at a loose thread. “Because ‘m bad at sleeping alone.” 

“Oh,” Louis says, watching the movement of Harry’s fingers. 

“And Zayn knows that,” Harry continues, still pulling at the thread. “And he doesn’t like, mind? I mean, he minds. I think he definitely would rather sleep alone, but he also knows how I get, so.” Harry shrugs. 

Louis lets out a slow breath. God, he likes Harry so much, and he’s so infuriatingly relieved that they’re not together. He can’t help it, is the thing. He just wants all of Harry. It’s selfish but he does. 

He reaches out, putting his hand over Harry’s fingers. “You could sleep in here. If you wanted.”  
Harry’s head snaps up so quickly that it makes Louis’ neck hurt in sympathy. He meets Harry’s gaze, though, and shrugs a shoulder. 

“Um.” Harry opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, probably trying to think of something to say, but what is there to say? Louis doesn’t even know why he offered. Besides the fact that imagining Harry curled around Zayn every morning makes something funny happen in his chest. Maybe it’ll stop happening if he’s with Louis. 

“You can think about it if you want,” Louis says. “But really. I don’t mind.” 

Harry lets out a long breath, blowing the curls that have fallen in his face away. “I mean. Are you sure? I’m — I’m a cuddler.” 

Louis smiles, reaches over and pats Harry’s cheek. “Won’t be a problem, love. Really, just try it tonight and if we both hate it then you can go back to Zayn.” 

“Um,” Harry says, and then nods, looking down at the duvet again. “Sure. Thanks.” 

That night, Louis falls asleep with his arms around Harry’s chest and his face buried in the back of Harry’s neck. It’s the best night of sleep he’s gotten since he left his mum’s house. He doesn’t think too hard about it. 

—

Louis leaves his keys in the flat. He leaves them there because that’s the sort of day he’s having. He’d woken up late from his nap and had to scramble to shower and wolf down the dinner Harry’d made for them to share. Louis had barely even spoken — too busy stuffing his face — which made Harry’s face go all sad and twisty like it does sometimes. Before he could say something, Nick had honked obnoxiously from outside, and Louis had been out the door with a _thanks love, bye_. He’d only just remembered his jacket. 

So, when Harry texts him an hour into his shift with a selfie of his confused face, holding Louis’ keys and _think you left your keys_ just under it, it makes Louis smile, even as it pisses him off. Of course he’s left his keys. Christ, he’s an idiot. 

_no chance you’re staying up tonight, then?_ Most of the time, Harry’s awake when Louis gets home, standing in the kitchen and drinking tea or milk. He observes the sky most nights, takes little notes in a funny notebook he’s got and makes sure Louis eats something before they both fall into bed. It’s rare that Louis slips under his covers with Harry already there, but it’s happened. 

_got a big exam early tomorrow. sorry :((((((_

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. Just his fucking luck. He bets if he called Harry and sounded desperate enough that Harry would stay up to let him in, but that’s unnecessary. 

Maybe Zayn could — no, fuck. Zayn’s gone home for the weekend and taken Liam with him. And they haven’t made a spare since Harry and Zayn moved in. It’s not ideal, but Harry will just have to hide Louis’ keys out front for him. It’ll have to do. 

He makes to reply when a new text from Harry makes his phone buzz in his hands.  
_I could bring them to you?_

Louis frowns at the screen. His hospital’s not really very close to the house, and he hates the thought of Harry traveling all alone across town, but he really needs his keys, and he doesn’t want Harry to hide them only to not be able to find them at three in the morning. Still, Louis can’t be that selfish, can he? 

_thought you could maybe just hide them in the planter outside for me_ he replies, gnawing on his lower lip. He checks the clock and jumps up, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his scrubs. Harry’s response will have to wait; Louis has rounds to do. 

—

Louis visits all of his patients on the floor, getting them things they or their family need and completing the various tasks the doctors have outlined on their charts for the overnight shift. He changes Timothy and Joanna’s IV fluids out, changes Henry’s IV when it falls out as he rolls in his sleep, fixes the oxygen tank in Sara’s room, changes more bedpans than he can count and cleans up more sick than he’d really like to think about. Generally, night times tend to be quieter, but sometimes it takes the patients a while to settle down. It gets particularly emotional when visiting hours end, and today is no different. 

By the time he gets to his mid-shift break, he’s exhausted, and is seriously considering taking a nap on the couch in the lounge in the middle of the ward. Technically, it’s for patient and family use only, and Louis could probably find an empty bed or on-call room to kip in, but the couch is right there and the families have either all gone home or they’re in their children’s rooms. 

He sits down on it and props his feet up on the table in front of it, because he’s a rebel, and trying to find some place else would take up half his break. He crosses his fingers over his lap and tips his head back, closing his eyes and letting himself listen to the peaceful hum of machines and chatter in the background. He can hear people walking around and talking to one another, no doubt gossiping about whatever happened earlier in the day. Louis doesn’t like to partake in that. It’s not that he thinks he’s above gossip — quite the opposite actually, loves a good scandal — but he finds it difficult enough to find the energy to get through his shift. He doesn’t want to waste precious resting time on caring about people he doesn’t even see. 

He’s about to doze off when the background footsteps get louder, signalling someone’s approach. Right, might be a doctor, can’t be caught snoozing. He lifts his head, blinking his eyes open. Maybe if he pretends he’s awake he’ll actually wake up. Except, it’s not a doctor that’s found him.

“Hi,” Harry says, his cheeks dimpling up with his smile. He holds up Louis’ keys. “Brought you these.” 

“Hazza,” Louis says, and he’s sure he sounds idiotic, over-full of gratitude and adoration, but he’s tired and he can’t help it. “You didn’t have to.” 

Harry shrugs and plops down on the sofa next to him, tossing the keys in his lap. “Wanted to,” he says, leaning back. “Was going crazy alone in the house revising. This couch is amazing,” he says, bouncing a bit and letting himself sink into the cushions. It’s the most comfortable couch in the whole hospital, probably. Even more so now that Harry’s on it. 

“I’d steal it if I could,” Louis says, sinking back as well. Harry looks at him, grinning, and leans against him. Louis isn’t sure if it’s because the couch is eating him or if it’s because he genuinely wants to, but he doesn’t say anything either way. He’s not going to complain if Harry wants to lean on him. Louis figures they both deserve a little break, and he already feels ten million times better with Harry beside him. 

Louis wraps an arm around his shoulders and lets one of his hands drift into Harry’s curls, running his fingers through them. Harry sighs, peaceful. “Better than that futon, that’s for sure.” 

“That thing is a death-trap,” Louis says, finding himself lulled back into that dozy place by Harry’s presence. “I’m surprised you survived on it as long as you did.” 

Harry hums and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Louis looks at him, smiles when he realizes Harry’s fallen asleep. Maybe a short nap wouldn’t hurt. 

—

They’re woken fifteen minutes later by Nick, who smirks at Louis and tells him to get back to work. Louis sends a sleepy Harry home with a pat on his head for his trouble and makes it through the rest of his shift just fine. 

When he gets home, Harry’s already asleep in his bed, his wild, gangly limbs splayed over most of it. He strips and slides in with him, wrapping an arm around Harry’s chest and spooning up behind him. Harry makes a pleased noise in his sleep and Louis spares a moment to wonder what he’s dreaming about before he’s asleep as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry’s fairly certain he’s having the worst day of his life. 

It’s a big statement, he knows, and yeah the day his dad left was pretty fucking terrible, but that had been the only bad thing to happen that day. The rest of the day had been awesome — he and his mum and his sister had gone to the zoo and gotten ice lollies and saw penguins sliding about on their bellies. When they got home Des had left, but Harry supposes he was young enough that he’s not too terribly sad when he thinks about it now. 

Today, though. Today can go fuck itself. 

He’d woken alone in Louis’ bed, overwarm and groggy, like he’d worn too many clothes to sleep and burrito’d himself in the covers, and then missed his alarm. Someone (probably Liam) had been in the shower when he went to take one, and they were out too late for him to try to squeeze one in. Which meant Harry had to go to class sticky with sleep-sweat and his hair in a messy bun. Then, he couldn’t focus on anything that his lecturer was saying because he remembered he’d forgotten to take the online quiz the night before and couldn’t answer any of the questions his tutor had thrown at him in his next class. 

His lunch had sat heavy in his stomach until he’d gone into the loo and made himself sick, and by then he’d had to go to his last class of the day: a three hour seminar on marketing techniques and strategies, during which he’d been assigned a group project with two other people. After that, he’d climbed onto the bus and fallen asleep which made him almost miss his stop. 

By the time he makes it to the door of the brownstone, he feels about ready to cry. He’s going to take a nice shower and then curl up in Louis’ bed and sleep. He just needs this day to be over. Well, first he needs Louis to pet his hair and tell him nice things and then he needs this day to be over. 

As soon as he opens the door, he’s met with the sound of laughter. Rather raucous laughter, actually, and it’s not familiar. It makes something twinge in Harry’s back, makes his shoulders tense as he steps in the door and sets his stuff down. 

No one hears the door, apparently, and no one hears as Harry walks down the corridor and up the stairs. He doesn’t hear the shower running, which is honestly a gift, but the chorus of laughter hasn’t stopped, and even the sound of Louis’ laugh can’t make him feel at ease. God, what’s wrong with him today? 

He stops at the top of the stairs, expecting people to be in the living room, but there’s no one. The telly’s off and the lights are out, but he can still hear the laughter. He makes his way down the stairs and the hall slowly, a strange heaviness weighing down his stomach as he gets closer and closer to Louis’ door. It’s cracked and there’s a light on, and Harry reaches out with a slightly shaking hand to push it open the rest of the way.

Louis’ sitting on his bed, which is fine, but so is some other bloke. 

Harry tenses immediately at the sight of him, shoulders curling involuntarily, something twisting in his chest. That’s _his spot_ on Louis’ bed. That’s his Louis. This bloke is just — just there and sitting in Harry’s spot and laughing with Louis and Louis is just going along with it like Harry hasn’t been sleeping in his bed for two weeks. Like he doesn’t know perfectly well that Harry belongs there and not some other guy. 

“Hey,” Harry says, before he can stop himself. He probably could’ve just backed up and got out easily. Louis wouldn’t have noticed. He’s clearly too wrapped up in the stranger. 

The bloke glances over to him, his eyebrows shooting up before he gives Harry a blatant once-over. Gross. Harry looks at Louis and fights not to cross his arms over his chest like a petulant child. This day is really, really terrible. 

“Hazza,” Louis says, smiling up at him. It tugs at the nasty feeling in his chest, almost makes Harry want to forget he’s annoyed, but then Louis says, “This is Nick. He works with me.” And Harry feels his mood plummet even deeper. 

“Cool,” he forces out, but it has to sound off, because Louis immediately frowns. “I’m just going to shower, I think, and head to bed.” 

“Oh, okay.” Louis stands, walking towards Harry. “Are you alright? You look a bit ill.” He reaches a hand out, as if to take Harry’s temperature, but Harry flinches away. Shock and hurt pass over Louis’s face for a brief moment. Harry’s never denied Louis’s touch, he knows that. He knows it must be confusing and hurtful but Harry just can’t right now. He can’t deal with any of this. 

Louis leans in, voice quiet when he asks, “D’you want Nick to go?”

Relief floods through Harry at the thought, but he shakes his head. Louis was having a good time. Just because Harry’s in a rotten mood doesn’t mean Louis has to be in one too. 

“No, s’fine,” he says, resisting the urge to lean in and put his forehead to Louis’. If he did that, he’d just sink into him and never come up again. “I’ll just — I’ve got a perfectly good bed.” 

Something uneasy passes over Louis’ face, but it’s gone before Harry can even attempt to place it. Instead, he nods and steps back. 

“Have a good shower,” Louis says, and takes his seat on the bed. Harry nods, grabs a towel and heads to the bathroom, ignoring the lingering feeling of Nick’s stare. 

Harry shuts the door and locks it, leaning back against it as he brings the towel up to his face and inhales. It smells like Louis, and Harry knows okay, he knows that it’s creepy to find comfort in your housemate’s scent, but Harry can’t help how he is. He can’t help how he feels. 

And God, how does he feel? He’s never reacted that way, to anyone or anything. He’s never needed anyone’s full attention on him at all times, because it’s always been so easy for him to just find someone else. But he doesn’t want anyone else. He wants Louis. Only Louis and he wants Louis to only want him. 

That can’t be healthy. It can’t be. There’s jealousy and then there’s creepy possessiveness and Harry’s fairly certain he’s crossing the line. And it’s not even — Louis’ just his mate! His housemate and his friend. They haven’t known each other long. He shouldn’t feel this strongly, right? 

A knock on the door startles Harry and he throws the towel onto the counter. He unlocks the door and cracks it open. Thank God, it’s only Liam. 

“Thought you might need these,” he says, holding up a pair of Harry’s boxers. The tips of his ears are red, which provides a little ray of sunshine on an otherwise dreadful day. 

“Thank you, Liam,” he says sweetly, taking them. “Care to join me?” 

It’s worth it for the way Liam’s eyes widen and his whole face turns red. “No, no thank you,” he stutters out, and Harry laughs. It feels good. 

“Maybe next time, then,” he says, and shuts the door in Liam’s beet red face. 

He should be nicer to poor Liam, he knows, but it’s just so easy to make him blush, and Harry’s always been a tease. It’s not as if Liam’s never given Harry just as good as he’s got, so Harry figures it evens out in the end. He sighs, shaking the thoughts from his mind and turning on the shower. He strips out of his gross clothes and lets his hair down, finger combing it the best he can before stepping under the spray of water. 

It’s nice and cool to battle the strange fever-like thing he’s had going all day, and it’s perfect. The pressure clears his head and makes him feel ten million times better, and he’ll be ready for sleep by the time he’s snuggled with Louis for a — 

Right. Not going to snuggle with Louis tonight. That’s fine. Maybe he can get Zayn to pet his hair for a bit. Even Liam might if Harry looks sad enough when he asks. He doesn’t want either of them, though. He wants Louis. Harry considers it as he lathers up his hair, working the shampoo through his curls. It’s not because he doesn’t love Zayn or Liam, because he does. He loves them a lot. He just loves Louis more. No, not more. Differently, maybe. Yeah. Differently. He loves Louis differently. 

Harry slips and nearly knocks his head on the tile wall. The bottles of shampoo and bodywash that line the shower tumble down as he catches himself, one of them managing to land right on the top of his foot. Fuck, that hurt. 

Fuck, he _loves Louis_. 

Wait, of course he loves Louis. What’s not to love? He’s kind and he’s funny and he’s patient with Harry always and he’s always been there when Harry needed him. Well, not tonight, but Harry hadn’t specifically said to him that he needed him and whatever — okay. Of course he loves Louis. That doesn’t mean he’s _in_ love with Louis. 

_But I am in love with Louis,_ he thinks, and curses as his shampoo runs into his eyes.

—-

The next day proves to be even worse. Harry wakes with a raging fever, his skin sweaty and flushed, and his back hurts from sleeping on the futon. A peek out the window tells him it must be sometime in the afternoon, but the bright sun hurts his eyes and he mashes his face back into his pillow quickly. He kicks his blankets off and curls up in a ball, not even bothering to check his phone. He feels too awful to even attempt to go to class, and if he’s right about the time, he’s missed most of them already. 

God, he feels terrible. He’s never felt sick like this before, not even when he’d gotten the flu in year ten and spent three days on the bathroom floor. He feels like he’s on fire, like his bones are too big for his skin and keep stretching. It hurts and he’s hot. Maybe if he lays here long enough, someone will come and check on him. Maybe give him some water and some paracetamol and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. 

No, not someone. Harry doesn’t want _someone_. He wants Louis. Maybe if he focuses on how terrible he feels, Louis will just know to come and find him. It works with Zayn sometimes, though Zayn has always been very attuned to how people feel. Louis seems pretty attuned to Harry, though, so Harry figures it’s worth a shot. 

_I feel terrible_ , he thinks as hard as he can in the general direction of Louis’ bedroom. _I feel like I might die. I need a nurse to take care of me_.

He waits for a moment. Nothing happens. No squeak of the bottom step, no sound of Louis’ feet on the carpet. Harry sighs heavily and closes his eyes. It was worth a shot. 

—-

A loud noise snaps Harry out of a doze. Louis’ standing beside his bed, hands on his hips and probably looking very disapprovingly down at him. Harry nearly whimpers at the thought, trying to shrink back under the covers. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Louis says, grabbing the duvet before Harry can get it. “Up you get, c’mon. You’ve been in bed all day. You’ve got class.” 

“Not going,” Harry says, though it feels — and sounds — like it’s wrenched out of him. “Don’t feel well.” 

Louis goes still for the briefest of seconds and then drops the duvet, his hand going instead for Harry’s forehead. Harry nearly moans at the cool contact but instead closes his eyes and pushes up into it. 

“Oh, love,” Louis says, his voice gone soft, “You’re burning up.” 

Harry makes a pathetic little noise when Louis draws his hand away, but a second later he shushes him gently, almost cooing, and something comforting and warm settles in his chest. 

“How about some tea?” Louis asks, sitting down on the edge of Harry’s futon. “We can have it in mine, if you can make it down the stairs.” 

Truth be told, Harry’s worried that if he stands up he might just fall down again, but the thought of snuggling up into Louis’ bed is tempting enough to get him on his feet. “Want that,” he says, sitting up slowly. “Your room.” 

Louis nods and helps him down the stairs with a hand around his waist. He’s small, but warm and strong where Harry leans on him, and he can’t help but lean into it. Louis doesn’t complain, just tightens his arm around Harry and leads him into the room. 

“Back in a mo,” he says as Harry settles into bed. If he were a good person he’d have insisted that he stay up on his futon so Louis wouldn’t get sick too, but he’s not. He’s selfish and he’s ill and he’s needy, and he’s still a bit put out that Louis was hanging out with someone that wasn’t him last night. So, he curls up on top of Louis’ covers, waits for him to come back with tea and medicine and tries not to feel too pleased with himself. 

Louis returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug and a bottle of pills. Harry drinks it dutifully and takes the pills, humming out a pleased noise when Louis gets into bed with him. With Harry’s fever, a body next to him should make him burn up even more, but Louis’ warmth is nice, not oppressive like it can be to have someone next to you. The short time Harry’s known him, Louis’ always been like that. Unobtrusive and caring and always looking out for Harry. It’s no wonder Harry’s arse over teakettle for him. 

He dozes on and off for hours as Louis watches movies on his laptop. Normally Harry might have an issue with the way Louis’ eyes are focused on the screen, but his hand’s buried in Harry’s curls, petting and stroking and making Harry whine when he stops moving. The amazing thing is that Louis doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s because he’s a nurse and he’s used to taking care of people, or maybe it’s because he’s grown up with younger siblings, but he just sits and pets Harry and lets him be pathetic. If it were Zayn or Gemma — or even Harry’s mum — Harry would’ve been kicked back to his own bed by now and told to sleep it off. Louis, though. Louis just lets him be. 

Harry perks up when Louis shifts on the bed, setting his laptop down and sliding off. “Hang on,” he says, patting Harry’s face. When he’s left, Harry pulls the laptop over to check his e-mail. He might as well tell his professors where he is while he’s still in his right mind. 

“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” Harry asks when Louis comes back in. “Have you eaten? D’you need me to make you something?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, but there’s something fond in it. “I’ve just put some soup on, don’t worry. And no, I’ll call in. Don’t want to leave you while you’re poorly.” 

Harry flushes. “You don’t need to do that,” he says, looking away. “I’m not that sick. I’ll be fine for a few hours.” Now he feels guilty. He doesn’t want Louis to miss work because of him. There are kids who need him. Legitimately ill kids, not just pathetic lumps with head colds like Harry is. 

“Hmmm.” Louis eyes him, his mouth twisted up. “I’ll only go if you promise you won’t try to do something stupid, like make yourself a full meal or go base jumping.” 

Harry grins. “My parachute’s in the wash, so I think we’re safe.” 

“Good,” Louis says with a nod. “Then I’ll see you in a few hours, alright? I’m serious, don’t overdo it. Just drink water, eat the soup and sleep. Call me if you need me.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Harry lays back down in the bed, closing his eyes as Louis starts to get changed. Not that he hasn’t already seen Louis shirtless after getting out of the shower more times than he can count, but he figures it’s better for his blood pressure if he doesn’t see him right now. Besides, he might do something embarrassing, like whimper at him, and it’d be a pity to embarrass himself even more than he already has today. 

“I’ll see you later, love,” Louis says softly, brushing a hand over Harry’s forehead. He opens his eyes, but he’s not quick enough. Louis’ already left the room.

Harry sighs deeply and shuts his eyes. He’ll feel better tomorrow. He knows it. 

—-

The pain is what wakes him. 

It’s searing, like bright hot pokers being stabbed into all of Harry’s joints at once. He wakes with a gasp, his back arching off the bed as he scrabbles in the sheets for some purchase. The pain is gone as quick as it’s come though, and he sits up in bed, hands shaky and breathing hard. 

He takes a deep breath, glancing around the room. There’s stars twinkling outside the window, so it must be late. Harry must’ve been asleep for hours, but he still feels hot, like his fever hasn’t broken. The pain makes him worry. _I must be getting worse_ , he thinks, standing on shaky legs. He doesn’t want to leave the comfort of Louis’ room, but he’s sweaty and gross, and hoping a bath will help with his achy limbs. 

Halfway up the stairs, another wave of pain rolls over him so hard that he crumbles, banging his shins on the steps. Not that he really feels it. No, it’s lost in the haze of feeling like his limbs are being ripped from their sockets while every single muscle on his body cramps. Like being quartered while underwater in an ice bath. 

It doesn’t last long. Maybe half a minute, but long enough that Harry slumps over the steps when the pain’s gone, breathing heavily. He sits up slowly, worried that any abrupt movement might bring on another wave. Once he’s up, Harry wracks his brain trying to think of any — and every, really — time he’s been ill. Has it ever been like this? He’d hurt when he had the flu, but not like this. Not full body spasms. He’s never even heard of an illness like this. 

_Louis will know what it is_ , he tells himself, and looks up the stairs, sighing. His phone’s up there, buried somewhere in his sheets. Harry knows another one of his pain... things is going to happen, and while he’d like to just curl up and let it overtake him, he knows he should get up there. He should get to his phone and call Louis because Louis will help. He always helps. 

“Okay,” Harry mutters, taking a deep breath and hoisting himself to his feet. He looks around once he’s up, holding onto the railing. “Okay. This is fine. I can do this.” 

Of course, the second his foot touches down the pain hits again and he curls forward, hands gripping the edge of the wood so hard that his knuckles have gone white. Something cracks and Harry groans, hoping that it’s not one of his bones, but when the pain’s gone and he opens his eyes, he can see that it’s only the edge of a step. The edge his hands were gripping. Gripping so tightly that he broke it, apparently. 

“Okay,” Harry says, and decides not to think about it just yet. 

The pain only stops him twice on his way up the stairs, the bouts coming closer and closer together as Harry makes his way to the bed. Strangely, it seems to be easier to fight through it as well. Harry’s not sure why, but he’s also not going to think about it too hard, not when he’s got to call Louis. 

He finds his phone shoved under his pillow and presses the button frantically, tapping at the screen to get to Louis’ number. He hits the call button and waits, chewing on his bottom lip nervously as the line rings. 

“Sorry,” Louis’ chipper voice says, “I’m not here. I’m probably at work — which you should know, _Liam_ —”

Harry groans in frustration, but it turns anguished when the pain starts again, stronger than before and lasting longer. He drops his phone, gritting his teeth and trying not to scream with how fucking badly it hurts. Tears prick at his eyes as it subsides, and he takes in a gasping breath. 

“Louis, please,” he says, hoping that somehow, Louis will hear him. 

—- 

Work kicks Louis’ arse. 

Usually the night shift is easy. Well, not _easy_ , but there’s a comfort in the routine and the general lack of emergencies on the paediatric floor. Tonight though, there’s a child admitted with a severe allergic reaction to something — severe enough that she coded twice before anyone could administer epinephrine and try to stop the reaction. 

Watching her like a hawk puts Louis on edge all night, and since the universe is such that everything has to go wrong at once, barely any of the kids on his rotation are able to sleep for some reason or another. A few of them are in pain from procedures they’d had done and are being weaned off pain meds, others are new to the floor and can’t get comfortable, and the rest. The rest just miss their mums, which always tugs at Louis’ heart the most. 

He spends most of his night on his feet, and what he doesn’t he spends comforting the crying kids. He doesn’t have much time to think of anything else, but when he does he thinks of Harry, how hot he’d been and how obviously ill he was. 

_Stupid to leave him alone, should’ve brought him here_ , Louis thinks, hand reaching into his pocket for his phone. He’s on his break, it’s fine if he gives Harry a call just to check in. 

His pocket is empty, though, his phone nowhere in sight. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He must’ve left it in his jeans, which he stuffed in his locker in his haste to change. 

“Code blue, fifth floor,” the automated voice says over the loudspeaker, the lights flashing. Louis curses and jumps to his feet, hurrying down the corridor. Harry can wait, he supposes. 

—- 

Three hours and one saved life later, Louis changes from his scrubs back into his street clothing. His phone clatters on the floor as he pulls them up, having fallen out of his pocket. A rush of guilt sweeps over him as he thumbs it on and sees that he’s got a missed call from Harry, and a voicemail. 

The voicemail isn’t unusual actually, since Harry makes it a habit to call him at work and leave him a rambling message, but he figured he wouldn’t get one tonight since Harry’s poorly. Maybe he’s feeling better and well enough to tell Louis about an amazing sandwich, or something. 

From the start of the message, it’s clear no sandwiches were involved at all. 

The first thing he hears is breathing, heavy breathing, and he thinks for a flash of a moment that Harry’s — Harry’s called him on accident while he’s wanking. The thought makes his face burn bright red, makes something churn in his stomach that he ignores. 

Harry lets out a groan on the message and it’s clear from the tone of it that it’s not from pleasure. 

_Pain_ , Louis thinks, as Harry groans louder and louder, sounding like he’s trying to hold it back and can’t. It makes his heart twist and his pulse ratchet up, pounding in his chest. _He’s in pain_. 

Louis holds the phone to his ear, trying to hear anything else, trying to see if Harry says anything as he gathers the rest of his stuff and slams his locker shut. He races out of the room, brushing by Nick without even a wave — something he’s sure he’ll hear about later, but whatever, it’s only Grimshaw — and runs down the stairs to the car park. The message has gone quiet, just the sound of Harry’s laboured breathing and Louis almost hangs up before — 

“Louis, please.” 

It stops Louis in his tracks. The pain in it, the desperation. Distantly, Louis knows he’s reacting rather dramatically to this whole thing, but it’s Harry. Harry who’s in pain and who’s ill and who called Louis only to have Louis not pick up. God. 

Louis fumbles with his phone and calls him back, cursing when it goes to voicemail. 

“Harry Styles, if you’re dead when I get home, I’m going to kill you,” he says and hangs up, shoving his phone back in his pocket and getting in the car, incredibly thankful he hadn’t gotten a ride from someone today. He speeds home, glad that the streets are mostly empty and that he doesn’t hit any animals that have wandered in his path. 

The cars pulls to a jagged stop outside of the brownstone and Louis is out before the engine’s stopped making noise. He tries to unlock the door, but his hands are shaking too badly to get the key in. The chances of Harry being dead are slim to none, he knows, and the door’s still locked, so he knows no one’s come in and like, done something, but still. God. Okay. 

Taking a deep breath and then another just after, Louis manages to get the door unlocked. He steps in, setting his stuff down on the floor before going straight to his room. 

Harry’s not in there. The whole house seems empty, actually, and almost eerily quiet. He knows Liam and Zayn have both gone home for the weekend, so it’s quieter than usual, but still. This whole thing is weird. It’s all very, very weird. 

He backs slowly out of his room and walks down the hall to the kitchen. Even with his heart still pounding in his chest, Louis feels a strange sort of calm settle over him. Harry’s okay, he knows. He’s not sure why or how he knows it, but he must be. Or he’s so hysterical with worry that he’s transcended panic and landed on calm. 

Christ, he’s really got to find Harry. 

He steps into the kitchen, glancing around. Everything seems just like he left it; a pot of cold soup on the stove, two empty mugs in the sink, mail all over the kitchen table, a great hulking wolf in the corner, cereal boxes left open on top of the — 

Wait. 

He glances in the corner again and nearly screams. As it is, he takes a step back, his hand going to his chest as if he were a frightened old lady. 

“What the fuck,” he says, and jumps when the wolf rumbles at him and tilts his head. 

“No, seriously.” Louis takes another step back as the wolf stands, still staring him down. It’s huge, its fur is a deep chestnut brown. _Sort of like Harry’s hair_ , he thinks dumbly and then banishes the thought. Now is not the fucking time. 

How is there a wolf in his kitchen? Wolves are extinct! Or, not like, _extinct_ extinct, but there aren’t any fucking wolves in Leeds. There aren’t supposed to be any wolves in England, for fuck’s sake! 

Louis takes a deep breath, unable to hold back a nervous laugh when the wolf takes a step toward him. “Okay,” he says, only half to himself. “Okay. This is fine. You’re just — You’re a wolf. In my kitchen. You haven’t seen Harry, have you?” 

The wolf sits again, tilting its head. Something about the action is strangely familiar and docile, like it’s not a creature that could — and probably would, given the chance — rip his throat out. It yelps loudly, a half-bark that nearly sends Louis out of his skin. 

“Fine, alright, you’ve not seen Harry, fuck off,” he says, backing out of the kitchen. The wolf stays sitting, watching Louis go until Louis turns around and runs up the stairs. He nearly brains himself tripping on a step that’s been smashed apart, but he can’t even think about that right now. Where the fuck is Harry? 

He calls for him once he’s up the stairs, but he doesn’t seem to be around. His bed’s utterly destroyed, the sheets and duvet torn apart, and his mobile on the floor next to it, the screen cracked. The wolf probably did this. Fuck, what if — What if the wolf hurt Harry? What if that’s what was happening when Harry left his message and — 

No, no. No. There’s no blood. That can’t possibly be what happened. 

_Then what the fuck did happen_ , Louis thinks, and bends over to pick up Harry’s phone. Maybe he escaped out the window, or locked himself in Zayn’s room or in the bathroom. There has to be an explanation. 

His thoughts cut off abruptly when something wet and cold prods into his arse. 

“What the fuck,” he snaps, darting away and glaring at the wolf. “Don’t do that.” 

The wolf huffs out a breath and bows its head, whining a little. Louis purses his lips and scratches at the exposed neck without thinking about it, yanking his hand away when he realizes. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” he says instead, pointing a finger at the wolf’s nose. The wolf sniffs it, and then gives it a little lick, looking up at Louis expectantly. Like Louis is supposed to tell it what to do. Like Louis knows anything about wolves or dogs, even. Like Louis is his leader, or something.

“I’m not your leader,” he says, lowering his hand tentatively on the wolf’s head, petting it when its eyes close. A strange sort of idea has taken root in his head, and he’s not really sure how to get it out. It’s ridiculous, of course. Just because Harry’s nowhere to be found and the wolf is, and the wolf’s fur is the same color as Harry’s hair — No, it’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. 

Harry’s not a fucking wolf. Louis is like, 95% sure. Okay, maybe like 80%, but still. 

A nip to his wrist snaps him out of his thoughts, and Louis curses, pulling his hand away. It didn’t hurt, just stung for a moment, but the wolf’s looking up at him reproachfully. 

“Ouch,” Louis says pointedly. Or, as pointedly as one can say anything to a wolf. “Fuck off. Do you need one of them doggy manners course? We don’t bite.” 

The wolf whines, bares its neck again and presses its cold nose into Louis’ side. An apology, he guesses. Great, he’s started interpreting an animal’s actions. He’s trying to have a conversation with an overgrown dog. How did this become his life? 

Louis scratches at the wolf’s neck again and then down its spine, laughing when it shivers and wiggles, clearly happy. 

“You definitely act like Harry does when he gets his hair played with,” he mutters, sitting down on the edge of Harry’s futon. The wolf works its way closer, up in between Louis’ legs, pressing its face into his tummy. It should make him uncomfortable or scared, maybe, but clearly this wolf is harmless. It just wants attention. 

Christ. What has Louis gotten himself into? 

—-

After what feels like hours of petting and cuddling with the wolf, Louis is sure that it’s Harry. It has to be Harry. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Harry can’t have just left, not with all his stuff still here and clothes and everything else. His wallet’s still on Louis’ bedside table, for Christ’s sake. He can’t get the train without his card. There’s no blood, and there’s no other trace of him. Except for the wolf. 

Not to mention how the wolf demands attention just like Harry does and curls up in Louis’ bed just like Harry does as well. It also keeps doing this weird thing to Louis’ neck, like sticking its nose in and snuffling a bit, like he’s trying to smell him. It’s weird and wet and cold and it tickles, but it’s so clearly something that Harry would do that it seals the deal for Louis. 

“So, Harry,” Louis says to the wolf, feeling inordinately pleased when it lifts its head and looks at him. “D’you — Are you like, hungry?” 

The Harrywolf stares at him, seemingly unimpressed. Louis sighs and mimes eating. 

“Food?” He mimes it again. “Hunting? Food? Do you need to go out?” 

He perks up at the end, standing suddenly on the bed and wagging his huge tail. Huh. He really is just an overgrown dog. 

“Alright,” he says, slapping his hands on his thighs and standing up. “Let’s go. Outside, yeah?” 

Harrywolf jumps off the bed and races to the back door, making Louis chuckle as he follows. 

“Okay, you’re going to pee and come right back in, you understand?” There’s no way in hell Louis is losing him again. He unlocks the door and opens it, nearly bowled over when Harrywolf bounds past him. 

“You’ll come right back!” he shouts out the door, watching Harry sniff around the garden. He freezes, lifts his head and looks into the distance. Louis can tell what he’s going to do a second before he does it, but he’s not quick enough. 

Harry takes off into the woods faster than Louis can get to the edge of the garden, and he stands there, watching Harry disappear between the trees. 

“Fuck,” he says, his breath fogging in front of him. 

—-

Thankfully, Harry finds his way back a few hours after he runs off. He pads up to where Louis’ dozing in a lawn chair, wrapped in a huge blanket and waiting for Harry to come back. He wakes Louis up by sticking his cold, wet nose under the blanket and into the soft, sensitive part of his thigh, making him shout and jump. 

“Fuck off,” he gripes, pulling the blankets off Harry’s head. Harry looks up at him panting, his stupid tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. 

“You’re a menace,” he says, frowning when Harry huffs in reply, probably overly pleased with himself. Even as a wolf, Harry’s insufferably smug. 

He gets up and lets him in, giving him some water in a bowl and making his way to his bedroom to fix the bed. He’s just gotten under the blankets again when Harry trots in and jumps up, crushing Louis’ legs with his massive body. 

Louis groans and sighs, pushing Harry until he moves. “Sure, of course you can share my bed. Not a bother at all,” he mutters. 

Harry whines at him, clearly having heard. Guilt settles over Louis like one of his blankets, only not comfy and warm. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, scratching behind Harry’s ears. “Sorry, love. Of course I want you here.” 

Harry presses his nose to Louis’ neck, snuffling again before settling down with his head on Louis’ chest. Louis runs his hand through Harry’s fur until they’re both asleep, his hand resting on Harry’s nape, arm curled protectively around him. 

—-

The sun’s just started to peek through the curtains when Louis wakes. He registers two things immediately. One: Harry’s turned back into Harryboy from Harrywolf, and two: Harry is naked. Very naked. Quite possibly the most naked he has ever been whilst in direct contact with Louis’ body, and Louis’ body apparently doesn’t know how to handle that. 

Dimly, he registers that Harry’s started moving, letting out little whines and pressing his face into Louis’ stomach, dangerously close to Louis’ morning wood. Louis squeezes his eyes shut and stays stock still, not knowing what else to do. Were this a normal morning, he might ruffle Harry’s hair or tickle him until he woke up, but this is not a normal morning. It’s the morning after Harry’s turned into a wolf — which Louis is pretty sure makes him a werewolf — and he’s fucking naked in Louis’ bed. Nothing about this is even remotely normal. 

As if realizing the same thing, Harry sits bolt upright in the bed, his eyes wide as he looks down at Louis. 

“Oh my god,” he says, his voice deep with sleep — again, not helping Louis’ morning problem — and scrambles frantically away from Louis. The bed isn’t very big, though, so he scrambles right off the edge, taking the duvet with him and landing in a heap on the floor. Louis stares at the empty spot where he used to be and tries not to laugh. 

He lasts a good five seconds before Harry groans pathetically from the floor, and then erupts into giggles. 

Louis leans over the side, propping himself up on his elbows. “Feeling better?” 

Harry looks up at him, adorably confused and clearly still-half asleep. “I was — You were — I’m —”

_You’re still very naked, yes_ , Louis thinks and banishes the thought before it leads to other thoughts. Or before it leads to his eyes wandering over Harry’s long legs sticking out from under the blankets, his pale thighs, the glimpse of hip he can see — No. Right. Stop that. 

“Nothing happened,” he says, “If that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing sexual, like.” He waggles his eyebrows, trying to ease the tension. The smile Harry gives in reply is halfhearted at best. That’s fine. Louis will just have to try harder. 

“I was in so much pain,” Harry says, before Louis can make another joke. “I can’t — I can’t remember what happened after that. Did I — Did I pass out?” 

Oh fuck, he doesn’t remember. Harry doesn’t remember that he turned into a wolf and now Louis’ going to have to tell him. 

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he says, while trying to figure out how to fucking explain it. “You — When I got home you were — indisposed.” 

Harry cocks his head at him, brow furrowing, and it’s so similar to the beast from last night that whatever little part of Louis didn’t believe it gets wiped away. Harry’s a fucking wolf. A _werewolf_.

Louis clears his throat. Best to just tell him, probably, and hope for the best. 

“You’re a werewolf, Harry.” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “I’m a what?” 

“A werewolf.” 

Harry squints up at him and doesn’t say anything. “Are you messing with me? I can’t be a werewolf, Louis, werewolves don’t exist —”

Louis waves a hand at him and reaches for his phone, thumbing it on and getting to the picture he took last night. It was right after Harry had just come in from outside and plopped himself on top of Louis. He’s licking Louis’ face that’s been scrunched up with false annoyance. He turns the phone around and shows him. 

“That’s you,” he says, and Harry blinks at the phone, eyes wide. He stares at it a long time, seems to zone out a bit and forget himself, because when he reaches up to run a finger over the screen — almost reverently, Louis thinks — he pulls his hand back almost immediately, blinking rapidly. 

“That’s not — That can’t be —”

“You think I go around letting strange dogs lick my face?” Louis says and Harry lets out a strange little growl, a deep rumble in his chest that surprises both of them. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, blinking again. “This is just — I’m not a — I can’t be a werewolf. I’d know, wouldn’t I? If I were?” 

Louis shrugs, helpless. He’s got no fucking clue, obviously, since he only just discovered that werewolves actually exist last night. They’re on the same page with this whole thing. “I dunno,” he says uselessly. “Maybe. I mean, you haven’t got bit by anything recently, have you? Attacked?” Isn’t that usually how it happens? 

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “Nothing like that. Nothing even close to that.” 

“I dunno, then,” Louis repeats. “Maybe call your mum? Maybe you got attacked when you were little and it’s been whatsit, uh, asleep.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Dormant? No. That’s not — That doesn’t make sense.” 

“Yeah, because you turning into a great bloody wolf on the full moon does.” Louis rolls his eyes. 

“I can’t call my mum,” Harry says, ignoring Louis. “She’ll think I’m mad and make me come home. She’ll — I dunno, she’ll — I can’t call her.” 

Louis shrugs again. He’d have called his mum the moment he started feeling sick, but he supposes not everyone’s got the same sort of ‘anything goes’ relationship that he has with his mum. She’d never call him mad or tell him to come home. Or, he’s fairly certain she wouldn’t, at least. 

“You could try the internet?” Louis suggests, and Harry shakes his head. 

“No, no I — I mean yeah, I’ll try it but I — I think I need to be alone,” Harry says, getting himself to his feet, clutching onto Louis’ duvet for dear life. 

Ignoring the disappointment curling in his stomach, Louis nods and slides out of bed. “Gonna go make a cuppa, you want one?” He knows that having tea together is the opposite of being alone, but whatever, he can just make Harry a mug and leave it on the table, or something. 

“Yes please,” Harry says in a small voice. God, Louis wants to hug him. Wants to squeeze him until he doesn’t sound so sad. He’s never liked problems he can’t fix, and this is a massive one. He’s pretty sure turning into a werewolf is irreversible. 

He shakes himself and makes for the door, turning around when Harry says, “Hey, Louis.” 

Louis looks at him expectantly and doesn’t think about how small he looks when he’s hunched over on himself like he is right now. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, “For um — Thanks.” 

Something warm blooms in Louis’ chest. “Of course,” he says. “No problem.” And he slips out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The library where Harry works is blessedly empty at the start of his shift on Monday. He stows his bag in the cabinet and gives his co-workers a wave before grabbing a cart full of books and pushing it off. Normally he’d sit and chat for a bit about their weekends and their classes and maybe ask for some homework help, but not today. Today he’s got a slip of paper burning in his pocket and too many questions to take the time dawdling. 

He’s a werewolf. He’s got to figure out how the fuck this happened. 

After waking up — _completely nude_ , Harry’s mind supplies, making his face burn bright — in Louis’ bed the morning after the full moon, he’d got on the internet to try and find any kind of answer. Unsurprisingly, the Google results were mostly irrelevant and a pain to sift through, even after having used the special searching tricks. Most of what he’d got were links to romance novels with summaries that made him vaguely uncomfortable and third rate horror films. So, he made use of the many amazing academic resources his university provides for him and logged into the library account to search for something more relevant. 

There hadn’t been much, but there’d been enough that he felt a bit calmer about it all. 

Now, though, his nerves kick up again as he nears the section of stacks he needs. The wheels on his trolley squeak loudly, and even though he knows he’s alone back here, he’s still cringing every time. 

He parks the trolley next to the shelf and takes a quick glance around before slipping down the aisle. The shelves are tall and stuffed to the brim, affording Harry a seclusion that he appreciates. He doesn’t know how he’d explain himself if someone were to catch him. Not that he’s doing anything wrong, per se, but just — right. 

Running a finger along the spines, Harry’s brow furrows as he reads the titles. _Feral Love. Untamed: An Alpha’s Kiss. Magic Bites. How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf. The Mane Event_. 

Romance novels. Fiction. They’re not helpful at all! With a groan Harry slumps forward onto the shelves, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. It’s fine, he’ll be fine. Except this was his biggest lead and without it he’s got nothing and he’s a _werewolf_ , so who the fuck can even help him now? 

“Hello?” 

Harry snaps to attention, turning toward the voice, trying to get ahold of himself. _Don’t cry in front of strangers_ , he thinks. _Don’t cry in public at all_.

“Hi,” Harry says, and it’s only slightly croaky. “D’you need help, or something?” 

The boy — bleach blond with round black-rimmed glasses — stares at him a moment. There’s something oddly familiar in his gaze that makes the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. 

“Nah,” the boy says. Harry’s taken aback by the Irish accent, but doesn’t have much time to think about it before the boy speaks again. “Work here, don’t I?” 

“I dunno,” Harry says, shrugging. “Do you?” 

The boy laughs loudly, a jarring cackle that frightens Harry as much as it delights him. “I do,” he says, and sticks out his hand. “Niall.” 

“Harry.” He shakes Niall’s hand, the contact calming him a bit. He draws his hand away and pauses, unsure of what to say. 

“So,” Niall says first. “You like romance novels, then?” 

Harry’s brow furrows and he looks to the shelf, shaking his head. “No, no. I was —” He laughs, rolling his eyes at himself. He’d been nervous before, but something about Niall has him at ease. Niall might laugh at his explanation, but it’s not a mean laugh. Probably. Hopefully. “I was um — doing a project on werewolves. Must’ve got a bit ahead of myself with the research.” 

Niall laughs again and Harry’s right, it’s not mean. He seems genuinely amused at Harry’s poor grasp of the library cataloging system. 

“Think you’d have more luck in the mythology section,” Niall says, a bit too pointedly to be offhand. Or, no. It’s not like Harry knows him. “Folklore and stuff, you know? Not fictional romance.” 

“Maybe,” Harry nods, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ll uh, check there next.” 

Niall grins at him. “D’ya need me to show you where it is?” 

Harry blinks. “Um. No. I uh — I work here too.”

“Oh.” Niall’s smile doesn’t falter. This is honestly the weirdest conversation he’s ever had — including the one with Louis about whether or not Harry should be able to see aliens with a telescope — but it’s not bad. Awkward and a bit strange, but not bad. 

“I’m going to go work now,” Harry says, after a long moment. Niall nods and gives him a wave. 

“Bye,” Harry says, turning away to get his trolley. He doesn’t hear Niall walk away, but when he looks back, he’s gone. 

Harry frowns and presses the button for the lift, trying to shake the odd feeling that’s come over him. 

—-

Once Harry has reshelved the books on his trolley the library has filled up with people needing assistance. There’s a line halfway out the door when he gets back to the desk, and his coworkers look frazzled. It’s the Reading week rush when all the students realize that their mid-terms are coming up and they haven’t paid nearly enough attention in their lectures or tutorials. 

Luckily for him, most of Harry’s professors have assigned him essays or projects — a rather complicated one for his astronomy course, but he’s not worried — and he’d checked out the necessary materials a week ago. Still, the rush means he can’t sit himself at a computer in the back and research folklore like he wants to. It’s almost the end of his shift before he even gets a chance to sit down, since right after helping the never-ending line of people he’d had to re-shelve more trolleys full of books. His boss finally grants him a break when he flops down in one of the chairs at the circulation desk with a heavy sigh. 

“Alright,” she says, as if his being exhausted is only to annoy her. “You can have a break, Styles. Fifteen minutes.” 

He smiles sweetly up at her. “Thanks, Barbara.” 

She rolls her eyes and waves him off, but he knows she likes him the best because he’s always on time and doesn’t fuck up when he’s reshelving. Well, he hardly ever fucks up, at least. Definitely less than the other workers. 

He spins around in his chair a couple of times before scooting over to the main computer, minimizing the program that allows them to check-out the books. He clicks on the library search function but pauses with his hands on the keys. What should he search for? Obviously just ‘werewolf’ wasn’t good enough. He needs something more specific. 

“I’m telling you, mate,” a voice says behind him. Harry doesn’t jump out of his seat, thank you very much, but it’s a close thing. “Folklore is what you want.” 

He turns to look at Niall, raising an eyebrow and hoping he doesn’t look as half as startled as he feels. “Are you following me?” he says, narrowing his eyes. Niall scrunches his brow and looks around the circulation desk. 

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Don’t have much else to do, do I? Thought I’d help you out.” 

Okay. Well, that’s nice of him, Harry supposes, but also kind of weird. “Thanks,” he says slowly. “But I think I got it.” 

“Cool,” Niall says and doesn’t say anything else. There’s a pause wherein Harry waits for him to speak or leave or something, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, waiting. It’d been funny earlier, but now it’s not. Now it’s just uncomfortable, which is only compounded by the feeling that Harry knows him from somewhere.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “Are we — Am I meant to remember you? Have we met and I’ve forgotten?” 

An expression flits over Niall’s face too quickly for Harry to analyse, and he tilts his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, but his tone isn’t convincing. “Maybe we’ve got a lecture together.” 

No, Harry doesn’t think that’s it. “Maybe,” he says anyway, and turns back to the computer. 

“See you around,” Niall says. Harry waves at him without turning around. It’s not the nicest he’s ever been, but he’s getting really uneasy and weirded out. 

He closes the search and pushes himself away from the computer. Maybe he’ll have a cup of tea during the remainder of his break, instead. He can always search again at home. That might be better. 

—-

When Harry gets home from work, he finds Louis and Liam on opposite sides of the kitchen, throwing cereal into each others’ mouths. They don’t notice when Harry leans against the doorframe and watches them.

“Is this what you did before Zayn and I moved in?” he asks after Louis’ hit Liam in the eye for the third time. 

“‘Course it is, Curly,” Louis says without even looking at him. Maybe he knew Harry was there the whole time. The thought makes Harry inexplicably pleased, like a portion of Louis’ attention is always on him. “Can’t change ourselves just because you and Zayn think you’re too good for a cereal fight.”

Harry scoffs. “I never said I was too good for a cereal fight.” 

“Don’t have to, do you?” Liam says, lobbing a Weetabix through the air. Louis dodges it and picks it up, throwing it back. “You’ve just got that look about you.” 

Harry’s jaw drops open. “Excuse you, Liam!” Louis cackles and tosses him a box, which Harry catches easily and shoves his hand inside to attack Liam. 

It deteriorates from there, of course and ends when Liam slips and nearly brains himself on the edge of the work surface. There’s cereal everywhere, and Harry looks around the room with a sigh before shuffling to the cupboard to get the broom. Louis hoists himself onto the work surface and watches. Liam at least gets the other broom and helps as Harry starts to sweep up all the little pieces. 

“Hey, weird question,” Liam says, “But. Was there a dog here when Zayn and I were gone?” 

Harry stops sweeping and looks up at him. He glances to Louis, who’s already looking at him with his mouth gone all small and his eyes wide. Harry probably looks the same way, actually. _Be cool_ , he tells himself. _And stop saying ‘be cool’_. 

“Um,” Harry starts, but Louis plows over him. 

“Liam,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “D’you really think I’d let a dog in here? You know how I feel about animals.” 

Something in the way he says it makes Harry’s gaze fall to the floor, his head tilting down slightly. He’s not — He knows he’s not an animal, that he can’t control whatever it is that’s happening to him, but it’s still terrifying. Louis is the one who had to deal with him, last time. It’d been comforting Harry to know that he’d be there next time, too. But what if he’s not? What if Harry’s just an annoyance? 

“Right,” Liam says, sounding like he doesn’t believe him at all. Harry doesn’t make eye contact. “Just wondering.” 

—-

The next time Harry finds himself with a free moment and access to a computer, he logs back into his school library account and searches for werewolf folklore, praying that no one comes upstairs to check on him. He listens for the squeak of the broken step as the search results load, and he clicks on the first one that looks promising. 

_The Book of Werewolves_ , it’s called, and the cover’s got a rather horrendous sketch of a wolf-man biting someone’s face off. Harry reads the summary and decides it might be worth a shot, especially since it’s boasted as the “first serious academic study” of werewolves. It doesn’t seem to involve any sort of fictional love plot, and that’s what Harry’s looking for. He requests it for checkout and goes back to his list. 

Ignoring the few romance novels that filtered in anyway, Harry chooses more books to check out. _Werewolves! A study of Lycanthropes in Film, Folklore and Literature_ , one is called and another simply, _A Lycanthropy Reader_. Harry requests all he can, hoping they’re not full of contradictory information and hoping they come in soon. The full moon’s not for another three weeks — well, two and a half, really — but Harry would like to have a better idea of what’s coming than just his disjointed memories from last time. 

He remembers pain, mostly, and being overwhelmed by smells and sounds. Running as fast as he could past trees, and a distant familiar scent, one he made his way back home to. Louis, he assumes, or possibly just the house in general, but he really doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. Harry isn’t sure he wants to remember more, honestly. 

_You could ask your mum_ , he can hear Louis saying, looking as unsure and scared as Harry had felt that morning. Harry knows he can’t. He doesn’t know what he’d say to his mum, how he’d explain it at all. He can’t imagine that she’d take it well or that if she believed him that she’d let him stay at school. She’d want him home, he knows, and he doesn’t want to go home. 

He _is_ home. This is his home now. 

Harry shakes his head and clicks out of the library site, closing his computer and laying back on his bed. He really wishes Louis were home, or Zayn, or even Liam so he could have someone to cuddle with. He isn’t sure how to describe how oddly he feels now, in the strange sort of aftermath since turning into a wolf. He should be worried about how much he’s in love with his flatmate, but all he can think of is the fact that he’s going to turn into a beast. Louis finding out he’s in love with him seems so inconsequential compared to what could happen to him as a wolf. Or why he’s turned into a wolf in the fucking first place. 

Groaning, Harry runs a hand over his face. He’s thinking about it too much, letting his mind go in every direction and he’s going to worry himself sick about it. He can’t do that. He sits up, taking a deep breath. The best way to go about it is baby steps, he figures. Just take it day by day until he gets his books and hopefully gets answers. Yeah. He can definitely do that. 

As long as his books come in soon.

—-

Obviously, the books don’t come in. 

The first few days, Harry isn’t really worried. He works in the library and he knows that it takes a bit for university transfers to come in, sometimes even weeks. So he’s really not concerned until it’s been a week and he realizes the next full moon is a week and a half away. That’s fairly soon for him to be this unprepared. When he asks his boss about it all she says is that they must be coming from somewhere far away, or that they’re checked out already in their original institutions and those people have to wait to send them. Or, maybe the mail’s just slow. She gives him an odd look when he makes a noise of distress — it comes out sounding a bit like a whine, so Harry can understand that — and he hurries away, trying to figure something else out. 

Harry paces the upper floor frantically, winding his way through the shelves and tugging on his lower lip as he thinks. He supposes he could see if the books are available to purchase somewhere, but there’s no guarantee that they’d get here before the ones he’s requested. He could search for them as like, an e-book or whatever, but he’s pretty sure Liam broke his kindle trying to read a book about American astronauts — though he kept saying _astronomy_ and Harry had to correct him — and he doesn’t even know where it is. He knows there’s a way to read them on your phone, but his screen is still cracked and he doesn’t know how to put them onto his laptop. There’s probably a program he has to download, and that seems like a lot of work. 

He supposes he’ll do it though, if it’s the only way. 

Determined, Harry rounds the corner to go to the lift, but runs directly into another person before he can get there. They go down in a flurry of limbs, Harry wincing as he lands hard on top of the unsuspecting student. Usually no one even comes up here, but Harry supposes that’s just his luck. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he says, breathing heavily as the breath’s been knocked out of him. He sits up, scrambling off and away. “Are you alright?” 

The person wheezes and laughs, and Harry finally sees the blond hair and the glasses and realizes who it is. 

“Ouch,” Niall says, rubbing his elbow as he sits up as well. “Not exactly dainty, are you?” 

Harry makes a face. “I said I was sorry, there’s no need to be rude,” he sniffs, and Niall laughs. His name is Niall, right? The boy with the tip about the werewolf books. How coincidental that Harry would run into him now. Niall has a habit of that, Harry’s noticed. Showing up wherever Harry is and giving him a wave or saying hi. It’s strange, is all, like Niall always knows where he is or can always find him. As weird a thought it is, it’s also strangely comforting. Harry’s not sure what that’s about. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Niall says with another laugh. “Just joking. I’m fine. You okay?” 

Harry nods, biting down on his lower lip, a thought forming in his head. Niall seems interested in werewolves. He’s the one who had the tip, maybe — Well, maybe he already has some books. Books that he might share with Harry, if Harry looks at him sadly enough. 

“You’re Niall, right?” Harry asks, even though he’s pretty sure. “You work here?” 

Niall nods. “Yeah, s’me, and yeah. I work here. Why, you need help finding something?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Well, I mean, sort of.” He rubs at his mouth, feeling awkward. “D’you remember — I suppose I was looking for books about werewolves, the first time we met.” 

Niall’s face stays curiously passive, no recognition, no confusion, no nothing. “Yeah,” he says anyway. 

Harry takes a breath. “Well, I — I took your advice, but the books I ordered, they’re like not coming in, or whatever. So I thought maybe you’d like, have one. Or something.” 

“A book about werewolves,” Niall asks, looking Harry directly in the eye. Harry wants to shrink away, but he doesn’t. This is important, for some reason. He knows that.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “For my project.” 

Niall tilts his head, narrows his eyes a bit. He doesn’t look like he believes a word Harry’s saying. “Right,” he says. “When’s that due again?” 

Harry swallows around a lump in his throat. “A week, or so.” 

“Huh.” Niall stares at him a bit longer and then shrugs, every trace of weird tension disappearing. “Yeah, I got something that might help you. Give me your number, I’ll bring it by your place tonight.” 

Relief swoops through Harry and he nods, taking the phone from Niall’s hand and punching in his number. He hands the phone back with a smile and stands, offering a hand up for Niall. It’s the least he can do, really, since he knocked him down in the first place. 

“Glad I ran into you,” he says, smiling when Niall laughs. 

“Good thing, yeah,” Niall says, nudging him with his elbow as they walk toward the lift. “Where would you be otherwise?” 

Harry really doesn’t know how to answer him.

—

The book Niall gives him is ancient looking, red and leatherbound but in pristine condition. The pages are yellowed but not overly fragile, but Harry still feels like he should be wearing gloves to touch them. It doesn’t have a title, nothing but an odd crest stamped in the middle of the cover. 

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to use this?” Harry asks worriedly, tracing over the edges. Niall nods at him, his hands on his hips. 

“Totally fine. It was my Da’s, but he gave it to me before I left.” 

Harry doesn’t understand why someone would give their son a priceless family heirloom before they left for university, but he supposes it’s not really his place to question it. Maybe Niall’s family is just weird. 

Gently, he opens the cover, flipping to a random page in the middle. He expects old typewriter text, but that’s not what he finds. 

“This is handwritten, Niall,” he says, his gaze flicking up to him. “Like, someone took a pen and wrote it.” 

“Quill’s more likely, but yeah,” Niall says with a shrug. “Hope it helps,” he adds, and then he turns and walks out the door before Harry can say anything else. God, he’s so fucking weird. This book is weird and Niall is really weird and — Right. Maybe he should just read it. 

—

After reading half of Niall’s book, two things are incredibly clear. 

One, Niall knows he’s a werewolf (because the only way he has a book like this is because _he’s_ a werewolf) and two, his mum does too. Fuck his mum _is_ a werewolf, if what this book’s saying about lineage is right. Apparently, the gene is so dominant that only one of your parents has to have it, so it’s possible that someone could go their whole life without ever finding their soulmate and never turn, but that’s not usually what happens. 

Yeah, because that’s another thing. The whole reason he’s fucking turned into a werewolf is because he’s in love with Louis. In love with his soulmate Louis, even though Louis hasn’t turned into a wolf, which clearly means that somehow Harry isn’t his soulmate. Harry didn’t even know it was possible to be soulmates with someone who isn’t yours, but he supposes that’s just his fucking luck. 

The book doesn’t offer any information about what to do about unrequited soulmates, or what it means if your soulmate’s just a regular human, and it doesn’t offer much besides a general summary of what’s happening and then stories about people finding their soulmates. The stories differ slightly in their described experiences, but they’re all generally the same. Two people meet, fall in love and turn into wolves on the next full moon. It seems simple, ridiculous, and the sort of thing Harry would’ve read a month ago and laughed at. 

Now it makes him want to toss the book across the room. 

— 

The night before Harry’s second change, Louis gathers up every spare blanket he can find and piles them on his floor. His bed’s too small for both him and the Harrywolf, so he’s making them a nest to sleep in. Or, like, Harry can sleep there if he wants, and Louis can sleep on the bed. He just doesn’t want anyone falling off the bed like last time. (And, truthfully, if Harry’s gonna wake up naked again, Louis would rather have a bit more room this time.) 

He’s pulling Harry’s blankets off his futon when something lands on the floor with a soft _thump!_. Frowning, Louis gathers up the blankets in his arms, surprised to find an ancient looking red book on the floor. It’s not one of Harry’s textbooks, because those are all blue and purple with galaxies and shit on the covers. No, this one looks sort of like a diary or a journal — a ledger, maybe, but it’s a bit too short. 

Louis bends down to pick it up, only catching a glimpse of seal on the front before it’s pulled out of his hands. 

“Oi,” he says, making a face at Harry. “What’s your problem?” 

“Nothing,” Harry responds, though the way he’s cradling the book to his chest seems to differ. “S’just delicate, is all. My mate let me borrow it, I have to take good care of it.” 

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them. He didn’t think Harry had any friends besides him and Zayn and Liam, and he’s certain Liam doesn’t own a book like that. It could be Zayn’s, maybe, but Harry wouldn’t be weird about it if it was. “Okay,” he says slowly, taking a step back. “Put it away then, and come see what I’ve made.” 

He turns on his heel and marches down the stairs — careful to avoid the broken step, lest he fall on his arse again — throwing Harry’s blankets on top of the pile he’s already made. Harry comes in a few moments later after loping his way down the stairs. He pauses in the doorway, looking down at the blanket nest with a raised eyebrow. 

“I made you a dog bed,” Louis says, smiling sweetly. “For, y’know. Tomorrow night.” 

Harry stares down at the pile. He rubs a hand over his mouth and Louis wants to know what he’s thinking, needs to know because the longer Harry stays quiet the stupider Louis feels. 

“You don’t have to use it,” he says eventually. “I mean, we can just — put all the blankets back, or whatever.” 

“No,” Harry says, his head snapping up. He looks at Louis intently, more serious than Louis is prepared for. “I love it. Thank you.” 

Somehow, Louis wills the urge to blush away. “No problem,” he says, “tired of your smelly dog feet, after all.” 

“Heeey,” Harry says, and Louis doesn’t even need to look at him to see the pout. 

Louis hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him down. Harry doesn’t try to stop him. He’s much less likely to fight off Louis’ touch when he’s feeling poorly, Louis’ found, and just like last month, the day before the full moon has Harry feeling grumpy and tired, not unlike a toddler. Louis finds it incredibly endearing, despite the fact that Harry’s spent more time griping at him than anything else. Louis figures it’s only fair, since Harry’s usually very attentive, what with how he’s made it his mission to keep Louis well-fed and sufficiently rested. Louis can take one for the team a couple of days a month and look after Harry. He really doesn’t mind. He likes to be able to give back. 

“M’sleepy,” Harry grumbles, pushing his face into the crook of Louis’ neck. Louis tries his hardest not to flinch when Harry presses his nose right under Louis’ ear, but then he sniffs and it turns into a full-on snuffle, like he’d done when he was a wolf. 

“Are you sniffing me?” Louis asks, trying to keep his voice even. 

Harry makes a small noise in response, pausing before, “You smell good.” 

Louis laughs, letting Harry nose at him until he feels the brush of Harry’s lips against his neck and the laughter dies in his throat. He puts a hand on Harry’s head and pulls away, holding him in place. It’s not that he’d mind if Harry wanted to kiss him, but it seems unfair and slightly inappropriate for it to happen right now. Harry’s been a bit weird since his first change, a bit more distant that Louis would really like to think about, and even if he wants to lean in and press their mouths together, he knows he shouldn’t. So he won’t. 

No matter how much Harry whines. 

“Lou,” Harry says, a hand curling in the front of Louis’ shirt and tugging. Christ, Louis’ never seen him like this. He didn’t even really think Harry could act like this, though he knows that’s stupid. It reminds him that he doesn’t know Harry, not really, so it would be extra stupid for him to try and start something. If he even wanted to start something, which he doesn’t, not really. He’s not so good at relationships, and he wouldn’t want to fuck up a good thing. 

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” he says, stepping toward Harry to wrap an arm around him. 

Harry responds, but it comes out as a low growl more than actual words. Louis lets him put his head on his shoulder as they shuffle into the bedroom, Louis guiding him to the big pile of blankets and gently putting him down on it. Harry goes, his eyes closing almost immediately. 

Louis smiles down at him, brushing a bit of hair out of his eyes, letting himself take in Harry’s face. His expression is slightly pained but calm, like he’s finally beginning to relax, and it tugs at something in Louis’ chest. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face, and Harry’s exceptionally beautiful most of the time. The whole thing really is quite stupid. 

“Sweet dreams, Hazza,” he whispers and straightens, sneaking quietly to the door and to the kitchen. He sits at the table, taking a few deep breaths. He’s really got to get a handle on himself.

—

Harry spends the rest of the day caught between dozing and awake, and Louis spends his time making sure he’s looked after. He leaves eventually to go to work, but any chance he gets he’s on his phone, texting Harry to make sure he’s alright and asking if he needs anything. He’s left Liam and Zayn in charge of him, but they just think he’s poorly. He can tell they’re getting annoyed by the way he texts them when Harry doesn’t answer — Liam’s actually just stopped responding all together, actually — but he also can’t make himself stop. He’s just worried, is all. He hates that Harry isn’t well and that he’s not there to make sure he’s okay. 

Most of all, he can’t get the image of Harry’s face from last month out of his head. After Louis had told him he was a werewolf. Louis can’t stop picturing how pale he’d gotten, how scared he’d looked. Louis is fairly certain Harry hasn’t found out anything else about his condition, so it must be terrifying knowing only part of what’s in store. Each time Louis thinks about it, thinks about how he might feel, he can only think about how lonely he’d be and how much he’d wish for a friend or someone to be there with him. 

How much he’d want Harry to be there with him, really, and if Harry’s anything like him — which Louis thinks he is — then he needs to get home as soon as he can. 

After what feels like a lifetime, his shift ends and he grabs his stuff from his locker, not even bothering to change before he’s out of the hospital and into the car park. He makes it home quickly and gets inside, kicking off his shoes at the door and padding into his room. 

Harry’s there, splayed across the blanket nest in nothing but a pair of tight black boxers, his hair mussed around his head and his face scrunched in what seems like pain. He lets out a whimper that cracks something in Louis’ chest, propels him forward into a crouch. 

“Hazza,” he murmurs, brushing Harry’s curls away from his forehead. They spring back almost immediately, so he does it again, wincing at how hot Harry’s skin is. He’s practically radiating heat. “Hazza, love.” 

Harry lets out another whimper and turns toward Louis, like he’s following Louis’ voice in his sleep. His eyes blink open and Louis smiles down at him, cupping his cheek. 

“Alright?” he asks, wondering what it is that’s got him this way. Well, no, he _knows_ why, but he can’t let it be true. There’s no use in even entertaining the thought. “Need anything?” 

Harry blinks owlishly, swallowing visibly a couple of times. “Water?” He rasps it, and Louis doesn’t even want to think about how dry his throat must be for him to sound like that. 

He nods and goes into the kitchen, filling a glass with cold water and bringing it back into his room, where Harry’s sat up and propped himself against the bed. 

“Thanks,” Harry says quietly when Louis hands him the glass. 

“No problem,” Louis says, and sits down next to him. He watches Harry drink the whole thing, eyes following the movement of his throat as he swallows and he realizes abruptly that he’s still in his work scrubs. It’s a ridiculous thing to think about really, because it’s not as if Harry gives a shit, but it has Louis thinking about just how much he cares for Harry. Like in a real, concrete way. He cares about Harry. A lot. 

They sit in silence while Louis thinks about it, until he’s jolted from his thoughts by Harry leaning his head on Louis’ shoulder. Louis puts an arm around him immediately, scooting closer without even thinking about it. Like instinct, almost. 

“I’m sorry you have to take care of me,” Harry says, so quietly Louis thinks he must not have meant for him to hear. 

Louis turns his head, resting his mouth against Harry’s temple and telling himself that it’s not really a kiss if his lips don’t move. He stays a moment and then pulls away slightly. “You’re not a burden,” he says, just as quietly as Harry had spoken. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” _I want to take care of you_ , he’d like to add, but Louis supposes even he has limits. 

Harry’s only response is to press his face into Louis’ neck and make a quiet sound. 

—

Having requested the night off from work, Louis spends all of the next day preparing the house for Harry’s transformation. He takes everything breakable or fragile and puts it in the cupboards, makes sure the telly’s in a position where it won’t fall if something (namely, a wolf) crashes into the table, covers all the furniture with spare sheets so it doesn’t get muddy. This is honestly probably the most he’s ever cleaned — even though it’s not technically cleaning — and he doesn’t even want to think about what Liam would say if he were here. Luckily, Liam is busy all day (and hopefully night) with his side jobs and Zayn, well. At this point Louis can only hope that Zayn sleeps like the dead. Or that he’ll go to the studio or something. 

As Louis preps for midnight, Harry sleeps like a rock, curled up on the pile of blankets and radiating so much heat that Louis can feel him any time he steps in the room. Louis tries his best not to disturb him, only lingering near the doorway for a moment or two so he can watch the rise and fall of Harry’s chest and know he’s still breathing. The rest of the time he spends watching the telly or pacing around the kitchen, listening intently in case Harry wakes up or needs something or seems like he’s in pain. He’s glad Liam’s not here, because he knows Liam would just spend the whole time asking him what’s wrong with him and why he’s acting so weirdly, and Louis doesn’t have an answer for that, not really. 

Sure, he knows he cares for Harry, cares about him and his well-being, but this is magnified, manic, almost. He feels like a wild animal that can sense danger coming, pacing and pacing and waiting for it to come, feeling a spring tighten up inside him, coiling and coiling until it snaps. 

Louis isn’t sure what’ll happen when it snaps. If it snaps, that is. 

He feels like he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. He’d like to go for a run to try to get some of his energy out, or maybe go in the garden and kick his football around, but the thought of being away from Harry, even that short a distance, makes discomfort sit heavy in his stomach, makes his hackles rise up for no real reason. 

With a look toward his bedroom door, Louis sighs. Maybe a nap would help. He could be close to Harry and know that he’s safe, and if Harry needed anything he could just wake Louis up. It’s such a great plan that Louis wonders why he didn’t think of it before. 

He makes his way quietly down the hall, slipping into the bedroom and tip toeing to the bed. It’s useless; he’s sure Harry could sleep through anything right now, but still. It makes Louis feel better to be considerate, or something. 

Climbing carefully on the bed, Louis arranges himself so he can see Harry on the floor below. Being in the same room as Harry has already calmed Louis down, made the uneasy feeling in him settle as he curls up on his sheets. He watches Harry’s chest rise and fall until his eyes close and he drifts off to sleep.

—

A groan wakes him. 

For a moment, Louis forgets where he is, doesn’t remember who’s in the room with him and blinks, disorientated until he looks down in time to see Harry writhe on the blankets, his eyes shut, his brow furrowed, and his mouth tight, pinched, in pain. He lets out another groan and it squeezes at Louis’ heart, constricts his airway for a moment before he’s off the bed and crouched beside Harry, pushing his hair off his forehead and murmuring to him. 

“Hazza, love, tell me what you need,” he says startled when Harry’s eyes fly open, wide and searching. Panicked, almost. 

“Out,” he says, and Louis freezes, his face scrunching in concern. 

“What?” 

“Out,” Harry repeats, starting to scramble away, but he writhes again instead, his back arching and letting out a loud cry that punches the breath from Louis’ lungs. 

“Harry, let me help you,” Louis tries, only to get his hand pushed away when he reaches out to touch. Louis looks down at him, startled and unsure. Harry looks back, pleading. 

“Leave, please,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t — I don’t want you to see.” 

Oh. Louis gets it. Harry’s like, embarrassed or something and doesn’t want Louis to see him transform. It’s not like Louis cares what Harry looks like, even if he's in pain or sick or whatever. Even if he’s turning into a wolf. 

_It’s not really your thing to see though, is it_ , a voice in his head — one that sounds suspiciously like Liam — says. Louis frowns deeper, pulled from his thoughts by another one of Harry’s cries. 

_I should stay with him_ , he thinks, but knows he can’t. Not if Harry doesn’t want him to. 

“I’ll be outside, Harry, alright?” he says, standing on shaky legs. Harry nods, and Louis slips out the door, closing it and leaning heavily against it. He listens, wincing as the sounds of pain come closer together, growing louder and more frequent as other sounds join in. Heavy thuds, like body parts hitting the hard floor; scratching, like nails against wood; groaning and strange pops that remind Louis of the time Jenny Rugers’ shoulder popped out of place during PE in year ten. It makes him sick, makes his spine tense and his heart race to think about Harry in there alone, in pain, his joints popping out, but then it’s gone, the noises have stopped and the only thing Louis can hear is his own uneven breath. 

Swallowing thickly, Louis turns, places a shaky hand on the doorknob and opens it. The Harrywolf sits in the middle of the blanket pile, ears up. Louis lets out a breath. 

“Hi,” he says. Harry tilts his head at him, whines a bit. Louis rolls his eyes. “Come on then,” he says with a jerk of his head and Harry’s up and bounding toward him, out the door in no time. 

Louis can’t help but laugh when he finds Harry in the living room, jumping excitedly in front of the door that leads to the garden. He barks when he notices Louis, and barks again when Louis starts to laugh. 

“You’ll wake the entire neighborhood,” Louis says to him, scratching at his neck. Harry calms instantly, and looks pointedly from the door to Louis and back again. “Fine,” Louis grumbles, and swings the door wide open. 

Harry doesn’t run off immediately this time. Instead, he wanders around the garden as Louis settles into the chair out back, wrapping a blanket around himself. He tucks his feet up under, trying to keep them warm. Right now is a good example of why he should wear socks, he knows, but he also really can’t be arsed to care. He’ll suffer through frozen toes if it means getting to watch Harry prance around as a wolf. 

Just as Louis pulls his phone out to film Harry sniffing at the gardenias, he hears it. A long howl in the distance, pitched just so it makes Louis’ spine tingle and something pull at his chest. _Another wolf_ , he thinks, but doesn’t know why. As far as he knows, Harry’s the only wolf in Leeds. Right? He looks at Harry, who’s gone still and frozen, almost as if he’s turned to stone. 

Silence stretches between them in the darkness. Louis doesn’t move, and neither does Harry. 

Another howl pierces through the air, closer somehow, startling the breath from Louis’ lungs and making Harry bark. He howls back, but there’s something strange in it. Familiar, almost, and strangely desperate. Louis doesn’t have time to decipher it before Harry’s bolted toward the trees, just like last time. 

“Fuck,” Louis says on a breath, trying to wrap his head around what’s just happened. It’s — He knows Harry will be safe, if only because he was safe last time, but it’s still — Who was howling? Could there be others like Harry? Or is it just wild dogs? 

“Yo, what the fuck?” 

Zayn’s voice startles Louis all over again, and he turns sharply toward it, squinting at the light from inside. Fuck. Zayn. Louis had completely forgotten he was home. 

“Y’alright?” he asks, trying to think up some explanation. 

“Yeah, fucking noise woke me up,” Zayn responds, shuffling outside. He plops down into the chair next to Louis, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sounded like howling.” 

Louis laughs, nervous and high-pitched and totally fucking obvious. _So much for playing it cool_ , he thinks, and looks down at his lap. 

Zayn’s chair creaks as he shifts. “Louis, that wasn’t howling, right? Like, wolves. There are no wolves here.” 

“Technically no,” Louis agrees, and does not look up. 

Zayn’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t like — “ Zayn cuts himself off so abruptly that Louis looks up, prepared for the worst. “You didn’t steal a wolf or something, like, did you?” 

Louis lets out a bark of laughter before he can stop himself, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Fuck, no.” He shakes his head. “No, no. Um.” He laughs again, looking up at the ceiling. Zayn’ll never believe him anyway. He might as well just say it. 

“Um, actually it’s Harry?” He hadn’t meant it to come out as a question. “The wolf. It’s Harry.” 

Zayn is quiet for a long, long time. 

“Harry’s a wolf,” he says finally, slowly, his tone so steeped in disdain and skepticism that it nearly makes Louis flinch. “Louis, come on.” 

Louis takes a breath and doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t have anything to say. He knows how it sounds, and he’s not going to sit here and convince Zayn that Harry’s a wolf. If Zayn wants to believe him he can. If he doesn’t then he doesn’t. 

“Louis,” Zayn says, and Louis finally looks at him, a pang of guilt going through him when he sees that Zayn looks as lost and confused as Louis had a month ago. 

“I don’t know,” Louis says, helpless. “I don’t — He’s a fucking wolf, Zayn. I dunno.” 

“Fuck,” Zayn says, and laughs. “I need a fucking drink.” 

He’s not the only one.

—

By the time Zayn and Louis rifle around the kitchen and find an acceptable alcohol source, Harry’s run back to the back porch and been scratching at the door. Louis leaves Zayn to open the bottle of wine and lets him in, trying not to be too pleased when Harry nearly knocks him over, snuffling and licking at any part of him he can reach. Harry really is just an overgrown puppy. Louis wonders, sort of distantly, if all werewolves are like this, or if it’s just Harry’s weirdo human personality that’s seeping through. 

He doesn’t have long to think about it, because the moment Zayn steps into the room Harry’s on him, prodding his nose into Zayn’s stomach and dancing around him, yipping happily. Louis tries not to be terribly offended. It doesn’t work. 

“I see how it is,” he grumbles, squashing down the spike of jealousy when Zayn kneels, petting Harry right between the eyes and murmuring things to him that Louis can’t hear. Whatever it is calms Harry though, makes his ears go down and his tail wag, makes him chase Zayn’s hand when he takes it away. 

The whole thing makes Louis’ shoulders tense up, makes him want to snap his teeth at both of them, even though he’s a person and that doesn’t like, make sense. Maybe Harrywolf is rubbing off on him. Great. That’s exactly what he needs. 

Rolling his eyes at himself, Louis shuffles over to them, digging his fingers in just above Harry’s tail, smirking as he goes down and rolls onto his belly. 

“This is so fucking weird,” Zayn says, scratching at Harry’s chest as Louis rubs his belly. Harry looks like he might die of happiness. Must not be too bad, really, this whole wolf thing. 

“Could be worse though,” Louis says with a shrug. “Weirder, even.” 

Zayn snorts. “I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking.” 

Louis shrugs again. “I’m just saying. It could be like, I dunno. Harry could be a vampire or something. A wolf’s not so bad, I reckon.” 

“Yeah, unless he snaps and attacks one of us,” Zayn says, and Louis frowns at him. 

“Rude,” he says, genuinely offended on Harry’s behalf. “You know he’d never do that. Wolf or not.” 

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah. I know.” 

Harry whines at them, drawing their attention back to him. He’s looking at them reproachfully, still on his back, belly on display. Louis and Zayn have stopped petting him, though. That must be the issue. 

Louis rolls his eyes. Zayn snorts. 

“Shouldn’t have expected anything different,” Zayn says, and Louis can’t argue there.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the books mentioned in this chapter -- with the exception of Niall's handwritten journal -- are real books. you're welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Harry notices when he wakes after his change is that the bed is empty. 

Well, it’s not a bed, really, but the nest of blankets that Louis had made for Harry only has Harry in it, and Louis’ actual bed is also empty. He doesn’t know where Louis is, basically, and that worries him because generally he’s always right next to Harry when they wake. 

Groaning, Harry stretches, sighing in relief when his spine pops. It seems like his bones take a bit to settle, though Harry isn’t sure if that’s because he’s new at this or if it’s just a werewolf thing in general. Still, he stretches more, and once he’s satisfied that everything’s in the right place, he glances around the whole room, smiling when he lands on Louis. 

Louis’ sitting at the desk in the corner of the room, his glasses perched on his nose and reading one of Harry’s school books about astronomy. 

He looks calm, relaxed. Well-rested. Not like someone who spent the night babysitting a werewolf. Harry knows he was there though, can remember him stroking a comforting hand through his fur and feeding him treats and rubbing his belly. Maybe it’s not such a burden for Louis to watch after Harry while he changes. Maybe he’d been telling the truth when he’d told Harry that the other night. 

“Hey,” Harry says, voice gravelly. Louis looks up at him, smiling softly and making Harry’s heart clench up. God, he loves him. That’s what got him into this whole fucking wolf mess in the first place. The feeling turns sour when he remembers what Niall’s book said, about how you only turn when you’re in love. What if Louis finds someone else to love? Finds a nice guy and they go off and get married and Harry’s just left, turning into a wolf every month all alone. That can’t happen. Harry can’t let that happen. 

“Morning,” Louis says, shutting the book and putting it back. He stands, making his way over to the makeshift bed, Harry’s clothes in his hand. He drops them before reaching out to brush the hair out of Harry’s eyes. “Liam made breakfast.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And he didn’t burn the house down?” 

“Seems not,” Louis laughs, his eyes crinkling up at the sides. The morning after is always the worst, the residual wolf-feelings still clawing at him, still nearly bowling him over with how strong they are. Harry loves Louis a lot, but it’s nothing compared to how his wolf feels. 

“I’ll be out in a few,” Harry says, taking the clothes before he does something stupid like grab Louis’ hand and pull him down into a kiss. 

“I’ll be waiting,” Louis says, taking a step back. He looks hesitant, like he might want to say something else, like it’s just on the tip of his tongue, but he shakes his head and takes another step toward the door. 

Harry flops back down onto the bed once Louis’ gone, squeezing his eyes shut. 

_I can do this_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath. _I can get through this_.

—

The smell of bacon makes Harry’s stomach grumble as he walks into the kitchen. Liam and Zayn are seated at the table, heads bent over something and whispering excitedly to each other. Louis’ sat himself on the work surface, gnawing on a piece of toast and watching Liam and Zayn with narrowed eyes. He’s planning his next prank, knowing Louis, and Harry can’t decide if he wants to know.

Mostly he’s taken aback by how normal it all seems, how much like any other day it could be, except for the fact that less than twelve hours ago, Harry was a wolf. Though, he supposes, that is the norm now. The fact that he turns into a wolf is part of Harry’s life, and it’ll continue to go that way. Forever. 

Harry shakes it off and shuffles in, bypassing Liam and Zayn completely to stand next to Louis and rest his head on his shoulder. Louis doesn’t even flinch, just wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and adjusts to accommodate him. They stay like that for a moment — Harry nuzzled close to Louis and inhaling his scent and Louis stroking a hand absent-mindedly down Harry’s flank. It’s nice, peaceful until the scraping of a chair slams him back to reality. 

“I was promised breakfast,” he mumbles, pressing in tighter against Louis, who laughs. 

“‘Course, love, just a moment.” He nudges Harry toward a chair and Harry sits, pouting when Zayn pokes him under the table with his foot. 

“Busy night?” Zayn asks, and Harry gives him his best unimpressed look. It must not work well, because Zayn only laughs at him and nudges his foot again. He’s being weird. Harry narrows his eyes at him, about to ask what his problem is, but Louis chooses that moment to plop a plate of bacon and eggs down in front of him. 

“Beans on toast in a mo’,” Louis says, and Harry nods, picking up his fork and digging in. He’s ravenous, feels like he could eat his weight in carbs and protein. Must be a weird side effect of the wolf thing, though Harry hadn’t seen anything about it in the book. Maybe he’ll give it another read. Or, maybe he’ll give Niall a call, or something. 

A flash of memory hits him, muddled and hazy but there. The smell of trees, grass, earth and dirt but something else, something familiar. A white wolf running beside him, a large gray wolf in the distance ahead of them. 

Niall, Harry realizes, as he stares down at his bacon. And someone else. Niall’s mate, probably? They ran together last night, through the woods behind the brownstone. Does that mean Niall lives near them? Harry’s going to have to find out.

“Hello, Earth to Haz?” 

Harry blinks and looks up at Louis, who’s holding out a plate of beans on toast for him. He takes it, blushing furiously. Way to completely zone out, Harry. Real smooth. 

He mumbles out a thank you and digs in, avoiding the weird looks Louis and Zayn give him. And the weird looks they give each other, actually. Like they both know something Harry doesn’t. That doesn’t make sense, though, because Louis and Harry are the ones with the secret — well, Harry mostly — so why would Zayn look all smug unless — 

Harry slams his fork down on the table and turns sharply to Louis. “You told him?” 

Louis’ eyes go wide, almost panicked. “Um — “

“Why does he know?” Harry interrupts, looking between them both. 

“Because you were howling loud enough to wake up half the block,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. It’s the look he gets when Harry’s being ridiculous about something, but Harry’s fairly sure he’s not being ridiculous about this. Zayn doesn’t need to know. Fuck, if Harry had his way, Louis wouldn’t even know. He’d have kept it a total secret, if he had a choice in it. 

“He came downstairs,” Louis says, voice gentle, like he’s trying not to spook him. Like Harry might snap his head off at any moment. “He saw you in the garden.” 

“You told him? You couldn’t have lied?” Harry throws his hands up in exasperation. “You couldn’t have said that I was just a dog wandering around?” 

“Little too big to be a dog, mate,” Zayn says, but Harry ignores him. Louis shrinks in his seat, shrugging. 

“I panicked.” Louis sounds like he’s pleading, but he hasn’t asked for forgiveness. Harry isn’t sure he’d give it to him anyway. “I didn’t expect him and you’d just run off. It wasn’t on purpose.” 

“Sorry, but did you just say you were a dog?” 

Simultaneously, Harry, Zayn and Louis look at Liam, who’s looking at Harry, his face scrunched up in confusion. Harry had forgotten he was at the table. Fuck. 

“A wolf,” he says, and it comes out toneless. “I’m a werewolf.” 

Liam blinks, and then his face clears, morphing from confusion to delight. “Oh! I had a dream about that once! Are you a gray wolf?” 

“Are you mocking me?” Harry asks, “because I genuinely can’t tell.” Liam’s got an exceptional deadpan, and Harry’s seen him commit to jokes weirder than this one. 

“What? No.” Liam shakes his head. “I seriously had a dream about it a few weeks ago. A gray wolf and a white one like, running. Trees and stuff.” 

Harry stares, and the longer he stares the redder Liam turns, which in itself is satisfying. Mostly though, he’s fucking baffled. How does Liam know about Niall and the other wolf? 

“Harry’s brown,” Louis says eventually, his voice a rasp. “Like his hair.” 

Liam’s face falls. “Oh,” he says, “Oh well.” 

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “That’s all you’ve got to say, Liam?” He sounds incredulous, he knows, but he feels that way. Harry’s just told him he’s a wolf and Liam only cares what he looks like. Unbelievable. 

Liam looks up, brow scrunched again. “Am I supposed to say something else?” 

God. Harry feels like he’s going to scream and he doesn’t know why. He’s thankful that Liam’s not calling him mad and kicking him out of the house, but a little more reaction would be nice. And Zayn, too, just sitting there listening. Haven’t they got anything to say? 

“I suppose not,” Harry says, and looks down at his food. His stomach turns at the sight of it, appetite gone. He pushes away from the table and scrubs a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. He’s got to get a hold on himself. He just needs time to process — alone. He needs to be alone. 

“I’m going to shower,” he says to no one, ignoring the heat from Louis’ stare and the sight of Liam’s round concerned eyes. 

“Good, you reek,” Zayn says, slapping him on the hip. Harry yelps and looks down at him, but Zayn’s looking back up at him just like he always does. Like he’s still Harry and the whole wolf thing isn’t a big deal. Maybe it’s really not, to Zayn. Maybe he actually doesn’t care. The thought comforts him a little, makes it feel almost real when he slaps Zayn upside the head in retaliation. 

“You wish you smelled like me,” Harry says, and bolts out of the kitchen before anyone else can say anything. 

—

The shower is good, clears Harry’s head and helps soothe his aching limbs. He hesitates on his way to Louis’ room, not really wanting to speak to him. He’s not mad, not really, he just feels sort of hurt that Louis would — would tell Zayn before Harry even really had a chance to wrap his head around it. 

It’s just sort of unfair, made even more so by the fact that Louis doesn’t even turn. And maybe that’s what it really is, in the end. Harry’s not hurt so much by the fact that he’s moonlighting as a wolf one night a month, but that he’s doing it because he’s in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. He’s not even really clear on that, honestly. Niall’s book wasn’t helpful in that regard, but maybe Niall could give him some information, especially if Niall has his soulmate. 

Decision made, he goes up the stairs to fetch his phone where he plugged it in a few days ago. He doesn’t have any notifications except for a few messages from his mum, which he’ll read after he types out a message to Niall. 

_hey_ he types, and immediately rolls his eyes at himself. _think we should talk about some stuff. come to mine tonight? bring your friend_

There, a totally casual and only slightly creepy message. Niall’s sure to respond positively to that. 

A creak on the stairs startles him, and he stuffs his phone into the pocket of his joggers. It’s only Zayn though, who emerges. 

“Aright?” he asks, giving Harry a nod and heading for his room. Harry wants to be alone, he really does, but he doesn’t have any space to, not really. Not where Louis can’t also go. So, he follows Zayn into his room, crossing to sit on his bed. 

Zayn scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Make yourself at home, then,” he says, but Harry can tell he’s not actually annoyed. 

“You know you missed me,” he says, giving Zayn a big smile. Zayn must be able to tell it’s fake, because he doesn’t say anything else, just gives Harry a look like _yeah, sure_. 

Harry scoots back until he hits the wall and brings his knees up to his chin. Zayn sits at his desk and pulls out his pencils. Harry’s content to watch him work, for now, the routine of Zayn examining each pencil, sharpening it and putting it back into the case having a sort of soothing effect. 

“So,” Zayn says eventually, when he’s about halfway through the case. “You want to talk about it?” 

No, Harry does not want to talk about it, mostly because he doesn’t know what he’d say. But it’d probably be good for him, and it might help him decide what specifically to ask Niall about tonight. 

“Ugh,” is what he ends up saying, falling dramatically to the side. Zayn doesn’t even turn around. Harry sighs and sits back up. 

“I’m a werewolf,” he says. 

Zayn does turn around then. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.” 

Harry chucks a pillow at him. Zayn catches it, laughing. 

“Sorry,” Zayn says, tossing the pillow back. “You’re a werewolf.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. He looks hesitant, like he almost doesn’t want to ask. He does anyway. “D’you know like, how?” 

Harry takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to be a shit about it, but he also doesn’t know how to explain it without being one. He could show Zayn the book, but there’s no guarantee he’d believe it. There’s no guarantee he’ll believe it either way, really. 

“Because I’m in love with Louis,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. Zayn doesn’t say anything, stays quiet for so long that Harry finally looks at him. Zayn’s got his pity face on, like he feels bad for Harry and doesn’t know what to say. Also a little skeptical, which Harry understands. 

“Really?” he asks, and Harry nods. 

“There’s this, like,” Harry cuts himself off, sighing. He doesn’t want to explain the whole thing, but obviously he’s going to have to or else Zayn’ll ask a bunch of questions and that would be worse. “There’s this guy, Niall, he works at the library with me? He um — The wolves you heard last night. He’s one of them.” 

Zayn leans forward in his chair. “Okay,” he says slowly, the skepticism in his tone only growing. 

“So he’s got this like, book. He gave it to me, and um. It said that you like, or, I like, turned because I found my soulmate. Louis. Because I found Louis.” 

Harry swallows thickly, watching Zayn process the information. His face doesn’t really change all that much — Zayn’s not one to give things away, not really — but when he speaks, he sounds, well. He sounds incredulous. Harry doesn’t blame him. 

“Mate,” he says, putting a hand to his chin. “I’ve got to tell you, that sounds absolutely fucking mad. Like, barking.” 

“Ha,” Harry says weakly, barely managing a smile. Zayn doesn’t believe him, then. Harry should’ve expected as much. He shrugs, not offering anything else. Zayn stares at him. 

“You love Louis so much that you’ve turned into a wolf?” 

“It’s genetic, apparently,” Harry mumbles, and Zayn laughs, loud and short. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just — What?” 

Harry shrugs again and looks down at the bed, fingers tugging on a loose thread. He hears Zayn take a deep breath, and then another and then the creak of his chair. He looks up when he hears the heavy thud of Zayn’s boots on the floor, watching him sit down on the bed, a few inches away. 

“So,” he says hesitantly, like he can’t believe he’s about to say anything else, “You’re a werewolf. Because you love Louis.” He still looks disbelieving, but less so. Like he’s more inclined to believe Harry now, somehow. Like he’s trying, maybe. 

Relief sweeps through Harry in a wave and he sags into Zayn’s side, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as Zayn wraps an arm around him and hugs him. He’s being dramatic, he knows, but he figures he’s allowed to. Zayn won’t judge him. Much. 

“That sucks, mate,” Zayn says, and Harry laughs, choked and slightly teary. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding against Zayn’s collarbone. “It does.” 

—

Harry hides out in Zayn’s room until Louis leaves for work and until Niall’s set to arrive. Harry’s planned it so he won’t have to make any awkward introductions to Louis or to Niall — and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want Niall and Louis to meet because he’s too afraid that Niall might know that Louis’ his soul mate and doesn’t love him back. And he doesn’t want Louis to meet Niall because, well. Because Louis wouldn’t get it, probably. Doesn’t get it. 

Zayn’s downstairs when Niall rings the doorbell though, and Harry doesn’t kick him upstairs. He knows Zayn would go if he asked, but there’s something about him that makes Harry feel a bit less mad and more like everything that’s happening is actually real. Like, he’s about to talk to a bloke about his personal experience as a werewolf. Because he’s a werewolf. They’re both werewolves and Zayn knows and is going to meet him and it’s — It’s a lot, and he’s glad he has someone with him. 

_Even if it’s not Louis_ , a traitorous voice in his head says, and he ignores it as he goes down the stairs. 

Every thought he has flies out of his head once he’s opened the door. 

“Hi,” Niall says, giving him a wave. Behind him is a mountain of a man, a good two heads taller than Niall himself and hulking. His hair is short and brown and he’s got a kind enough face, but fuck, he’s huge. 

“Hi,” Harry says, and tries to school his features back into something that isn’t blatant shock. “I’m um — Glad you made it.” 

“This is Brez,” Niall says, gesturing to the mountain. “Or Bressie, if you want.” 

Harry nods, finally sticking his hand out for a shake. “Nice to meet you,” he says. Does it count if they’ve met as wolves? Harry isn’t sure of the etiquette of all this. It doesn’t help that Bressie won’t stop staring him down. 

He brushes off the discomfort and lets them in, ushering them upstairs to the sitting area. Zayn trails after them, feigning nonchalance. Harry feels like he should be annoyed by it, but he’s not. He knows Zayn is just looking out for him. If it were switched and Zayn were suddenly a werewolf and invited two of his werewolf pals over, Harry would want to be there too. 

He grabs the book from his sleeping nook and hands it to Niall as they sit. 

Niall takes it, looking up at him. “Did it help?” 

_If by ‘help’ you mean ‘essentially ruined my life, then yes_ , Harry thinks darkly before nodding. “Um, sort of. With most of it. But I — It’s like, genetic?” 

Niall nods, handing the book to Bressie, who takes it without looking. He’s glancing around the room, like he’s sizing it up, which totally doesn’t make Harry more nervous than he already is. “Yeah, used to be you were born from a soulmate match, but I don’t think that’s such a big deal anymore. It’s my Da who told me about it.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, scratching at the back of his neck. “And he’s got — a soul mate?” 

Niall frowns, shakes his head. “Nah. He’s never turned. It happens sometimes. Most of the time, I think,” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth. 

Harry wonders for a moment if it’d be better to know there’s a soulmate out there somewhere but not find them than it is to have found his and know — well. He isn’t really sure what he knows, actually. 

“D’you — “ he stops, clears his throat. He glances at Zayn out of the corner of his eye, who’s watching him, calm but intent, like he’s urging Harry to just say it. “Have you ever heard of like, people changing at different times? Or like. Someone having a different soulmate? Or a soulmate that doesn’t have the gene?” 

Niall’s frown deepens, and he glances up to Bressie, who’s frowning back at him. They stare at each other a moment, faces going through different expressions so quickly that they have to be having a conversation somehow. Harry leans over to whisper to Zayn. 

“Is that what me and Louis are like?” 

Zayn snorts and nods, which catches Niall’s attention. 

“I dunno,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “The only stories I know really are in that — “ He points to the book just as Bressie holds it up. “So if it’s not in there…” He shrugs. 

Harry swallows thickly. It was worth a shot. “Okay,” he says, and before he can hear anything else he’s interrupted by the familiar slam of the front door and someone trudging up the stairs. Louis. 

Harry scrambles for his phone, checking the time. It’s way too early for Louis to be home, too early for him to even be on a lunch break. He gives Zayn a pleading look just before Louis makes it to the top, saying loudly, 

“Darlings, I’m home!” 

“Hey Lou,” Zayn says smoothly, giving Harry time to turn his face away and take a few deep breaths. He doesn’t know how to explain Niall and Bressie to him, and he certainly doesn’t want to talk about Louis with them. 

“Hi,” he says slowly. Harry can practically hear the way his eyes have narrowed. “What’s all this, then?” 

“Just some mates of mine,” Harry says before Zayn can make up a lie. He turns, plastering on a smile. “Niall works with me at the library. This is his — Bressie. His Bressie.” 

Louis looks at him curiously, eyes scanning over Harry’s face so intently that it heats up, but Harry doesn’t look away. He’s been acting weird, he knows, and he knows that this probably won’t help, but maybe for once in his life, Louis will take the hint and leave them alone. 

“Hiya,” Louis says finally, his gaze flicking to their guests. He moves to shake their hands, putting on what Harry calls his ‘good host’ face. Niall smiles at him immediately, but Bressie looks at him as impassively as he’s taken in everything else. Harry’s strangely glad for it. 

Louis finishes shaking their hands and promptly squeezes himself into the couch, between Harry and the armrest. It’s the closest they’ve been in a day and a half, and Harry’s embarrassed at how much better he feels just having Louis next to him. God, he’s so fucked. 

“Don’t you have work?” he asks, acutely aware of how Niall and Bressie are staring at them. “Like, right now?” 

“Read the schedule wrong,” Louis says with a shrug. “Don’t have to go in until tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, and then nothing else. The silence stretches awkwardly until Zayn clears his throat. 

“Why don’t we go make dinner, Louis?” 

Louis makes a face at him. “When have I _ever_ — “

“Louis,” Zayn interrupts sharply, giving him a significant look. He looks from Louis to Niall and back again and Harry could honestly kiss him because finally Louis’ face clears with realization. 

“Okay,” he says, sounding a bit off-kilter, clearing his throat. He stands awkwardly, not looking at Harry as he waits for Zayn, who stands and ushers him out of the room and down the stairs. 

Harry clears his throat once they’ve gone, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that,” he says. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” 

It’s Bressie who speaks, catching Harry off guard. “He’s your mate. He hasn’t changed?” 

Harry’s face burns as he shakes his head. He can’t tell if them figuring it out is worse than him telling them. Is he really so pathetically in love with Louis that near-strangers can see it? 

“I think he will,” Niall says confidently. Harry looks up at him to see if he’s joking. He doesn’t seem like he is, which is nice, but Harry also really doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“So, it’s genetic,” he says. “D’you — D’you think my mum would know? If it were her?” 

Niall, seemingly unphased by the abrupt change in subject, shrugs. “Dunno, mate. Your mum, isn’t she? If she hasn’t mentioned it before, then probably not. But maybe. Doesn’t hurt to ask.” 

“Unless she thinks I’m mad and has me committed,” Harry says darkly. 

Niall laughs. “Suppose you’re right.” He stops, chews on his bottom lip. “You got any more questions? I’m starving, mate.” 

Bressie looks at him, scandalized. “Niall!” 

“What? It’s true,” he says, which makes Harry laugh. 

“It’s fine, I think they’re probably ordering pizza,” Harry says, because if he knows anything, it’s that Louis’ culinary talents extend to dialing his favorite takeaway places from memory. 

“You’re welcome to join us,” he adds. He really would like to get to know them, especially if they’re going to be hanging out every month. 

Niall grins up at him, wide and pleased while Bressie rolls his eyes. 

“Now you’ll never be rid of him,” he says, smiling fondly, and Harry finds that he really doesn’t mind at all whether he’s right.

—

It takes Harry a week, but he finally calls his mum.

As wary as he was about it in the beginning, the whole thing is starting to take its toll on him. After the night Niall and Bressie came over, he’d had to field all sorts of questions from Louis — questions he’d had no answers for. He didn’t know if it was okay to tell Louis that they were werewolves as well, and he wasn’t sure what Louis’ reaction would be. How he’d feel about Harry hanging out with other werewolves, or whatever. 

Not that Louis has any say or power in who Harry chooses to hang out with, but just. In general. Things had been tense between them — mainly due to Harry avoiding him, he knows — and he just — he needs his mum. He needs to talk to her, is all, and see if she knows anything about this. If there’s anything she could do to help. 

The line rings four times before Harry’s mum picks up, sounding cheerful as always. They chat for a bit, catching up on all the stuff that’s happened in the past few weeks. His mum’s wonderful, never makes him feel guilty for not calling and never says anything more than that she missed him. Her voice settles the frenetic thrum under his skin, eases the tension that’s been gripping at his shoulders for days now. Weeks, probably. He's been so worried about telling her, about whether or not she’d think he’s mad, but he knows that was stupid of him. Of course she’ll listen. She’s his mum. She loves him. 

“Mum,” he says, interrupting a story about how her dog keeps digging up the neighbor’s gardenias. “I have something to tell you.” 

“Alright,” his mum says, after a pause. “Are you ill?” 

“No, it’s um — “ He laughs, clears his throat. “I um. For the past two months, I — Like, on the full moon I’ve — Been changing.” He squeezes his eyes shut, nearly clapping himself on the forehead. Smooth, Styles. Really smooth. 

“Changing what?” His mum asks, sounding hesitant, but in a sort of foreboding way. Like she might already know the answer and doesn’t want to hear it. 

Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out on a laugh. “Um. Into like, a wolf. A werewolf.” He laughs again, slightly hysterical.

It’s a long moment before his mother says anything. 

“Oh, Harry.” She sounds… Harry doesn’t know how to place it. “You — You met your soulmate, then?” 

He lets out a ragged breath, the sudden relief almost bowling him over. Tears spring to his eyes as he inhales shakily. “Mum,” he says, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” 

She huffs out a breath. “It’s not that easy, love,” she says, and pauses. “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me, for one, and I never — “ She pauses again, clearing her throat. “There’s no guarantee, you know. That you’ll find them. I didn’t want you to hope for something that might never happen.” 

Harry swallows thickly, his chest aching. He thinks of Niall’s father, never finding his soulmate but telling Niall anyway. Harry isn’t sure if he’d have preferred that. “Well it did,” he says quietly. He’s not angry. He’s relieved that she knows what he’s talking about and sad that she never told him but not angry. Never angry. “Don’t think I’m his, though.” 

“What?” 

“I’m the only one who’s changed,” he explains, running a hand through his hair. “I think he doesn’t love me back.” 

“Oh darling,” she says, and she sounds so, so sad that it makes Harry squeeze his eyes shut. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want her to be sad like he is. 

“What do I do?” 

His mum breathes out, stays silent for a moment. “I don’t know, love. I haven’t got a guide, or anything. I’ve never even met another — anyone like us. Anyone like our family.” 

“They didn’t tell you anything?” 

Anne hums. “Not anything besides the basics. My dad — I don’t think he ever met his either.” 

So she’s just as clueless as he is, then. Great. And apparently his whole family’s unlucky in love. “Okay,” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I’ve got to go, but I love you mum, alright?”

“Of course, baby, I love you too,” she says, still sounding sad. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” she adds, and Harry nods before realizing she can’t see him. 

“It’s fine, mum. Promise. Feel better that you know at all,” he says and gives her one last good bye before hanging up. He lays back on his futon, staring up at the ceiling until he hears someone shuffle over and sit down on the edge. 

It’s Zayn, and while Harry’s glad to see him, he wishes it were Louis. 

“I’m so fucked,” he says, and Zayn only smiles sadly at him, like he agrees. 

—

Harry's not proud of it, but in the weeks following the phone call with his mum, he avoids Louis. He doesn't outright ignore him or anything; he's perfectly capable of having a conversation with him while they're in the same room. He just doesn't seek Louis out like he might've before. The more time he spends with Louis, the more he notices little things about him to love. Like how he shimmies his shoulders when he’s singing to himself in the kitchen and how he’s always washing Liam’s dirty dishes or setting out Zayn’s keys where he’ll be sure to find them. The longer he spends with Louis, around Louis, the harder he falls for him. And, yeah, it’s not like Harry can turn into a wolf all over again, but it still hurts to have feelings and know Louis doesn’t share them.

Instead, he spends his time with Zayn or Liam, studying or cooking together or watching movies — or, on one strange and memorable occasion, talking through a series of terrifyingly accurate dreams about Harry’s leaver’s formal — and other friend slash flatmate activities. Activities that Harry would love to do with Louis, but can’t let himself. So, time he would spend planning how to prank Liam with Louis he spends with Liam instead, talking about weird people he’s met or listening to the stuff he makes in his sound technology classes. With Zayn, he usually watches him paint while curled up on his bed. It sounds boring, but it’s actually soothing, and more often than not has him falling asleep in Zayn’s bed most nights. 

The time he doesn’t spend with Liam or Zayn is spent with Niall and Bressie, getting to know them better. He learns they grew up on the same small town in Ireland, that neither of them ever expected to find their soulmate and we're both floored when they did. Harry wants to ask them what it was like, changing at the same time, having someone else to go through it with, but he doesn't. It seems too invasive, and he's worried the answer might just make him resent them a little bit. 

He also learns that Niall’s incredibly welcoming and not at all shy. The first time Harry visits their flat — the right half of a brownstone similar to the one Harry lives in, actually — he gets an open invitation to ‘pop in whenever’ and treated like he’s known them forever, and not just a few measly weeks. That’s the odd thing about Niall, really, is that he’s just — Harry feels like he’s known him all his life. He feels comfortable, almost as comfortable as he’d felt with Louis when he first met him, and it’s strange. He doesn’t know if it’s because they’re all werewolves or what, but it’s nice to be able to go over to Niall’s and relax and not have to think about anything too serious, or whatever. It’s nice just to be. 

That’s probably why he decides he’ll spend the next full moon with them, instead of at home. 

He doesn’t mention it to any of his flatmates, but that’s fine. They don’t really make it a habit to ask him about his full moon plans. Louis might, but Harry’s avoiding him, obviously, so it’s not until a few days before that it really matters. 

Harry comes downstairs to find Louis hauling an armful of blankets into the laundry. The very same blankets that made up Harry’s nest the previous month. 

“Finally washing those?” he asks, and it must startle Louis because he jumps slightly, dropping one of them. 

“Harry, hi,” he says, cheeks turning pink. God. Harry’s really fucked things up between them if Louis doesn’t even know how to act anymore. “Yeah, I figured you’d want them clean, maybe. For — you know.” 

For the full moon he means, obviously. A rotten feeling spreads through Harry’s chest, and he bites down on his lower lip. “Yeah,” he says, scratching at the back of his head. “I thought I might, um. Spend it somewhere else. With Niall and Bressie, I mean.” 

Louis makes a face Harry can’t read, and then shutters it off. “Right, sure,” he says, his voice strangely tight. 

Harry feels like he might cry. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Louis to stand there and look small under a pile of blankets and doesn’t want things to be weird between them. He just wants his friend back. He doesn’t know how to fix it. “Yeah,” he says, because there’s nothing else. 

“Suppose I better wash these anyway,” Louis says after a long moment. 

Harry nods and doesn’t say anything as Louis slips into the laundry and shuts the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Louis doesn’t know what he did, but whatever it was, he wishes he could take it back. Harry’s been weird, definitely avoiding being alone with Louis and definitely struggling to even look him in the eye. Louis really, really doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but he wants someone to just fucking tell him so he can fix it. 

But, no one tells him. Instead, he gets to watch Harry make dumb jokes with Liam all day and then trail Zayn up the stairs at night. Instead he comes home to a cold, empty room and an even colder bed. He’d think Harry absolutely hated him, really, if it weren’t for the painstakingly cling-wrapped plate of dinner that he still finds in the fridge every night. Harry’s not there to eat it with him, but at least it’s still there, he supposes. 

Really he shouldn't be surprised to be spending the full moon alone, given how the past few weeks have been, but he is. Or, no, he’s not. He’s disappointed though, and hurt. He knows Harry’s wolf thing isn’t about him, but when Harry spends so much time avoiding him it sort of feels like it is. Like it’s his fault somehow that Harry can’t stand the sight of him.

He’d taken the night off weeks ago in preparation, back when he still thought Harry would want him around, and no one at work needed to switch with him on short notice, so he’s sat at home, wrapped in freshly laundered blankets and staring at the telly. It’s not terribly late, only a couple of hours until midnight, but Louis finds himself strangely tired anyway. Drowsy, almost, as if a nap would be just the thing. It’s compounded by the fact that Zayn’s shut up in his room doing God knows what and Liam’s gone on a date, or something. All Louis has to entertain himself is crap reality shows and the shitty apps on his outdated phone. Except his phone’s downstairs so he hasn't even got that, really. 

Louis hadn’t seen Harry before he left for Niall’s, so he can’t help but wonder how he’s doing, whether or not he’s alright or if he needs water or a blanket or food or — something. Anything. Not that Louis doesn’t think Niall and Bressie are perfectly capable of taking care of him, because they are. That’s the issue, though. Louis doesn’t want them to be. Louis wants Harry to be here, with him. 

He sighs, glad he doesn’t have his phone, because he would’ve texted Harry by now, more than once probably, something stupid like _hope you’re alright_ or _wish you were here not there_. It’s not fair of him to say that, he knows. Harry’s wolf thing isn’t about him, and Niall and Bressie can understand it better than he can. (Getting Harry to tell him how he knows them — really knows them — took entirely too long, in Louis’ opinion, but he doesn’t want to think about it.) And it’s not like Louis has any right to keep Harry from going to them. He doesn’t have any sort of claim, except maybe that he knew Harry first. It’s hardly enough to try and convince him to stay here when he doesn’t want to be. 

With another sigh, Louis picks up the remote and flips the channel. He’s got to find something to take his mind off it. There’s no telling what he’ll do otherwise.

— 

Louis wakes hours later, groggy and dry-mouthed, blinking against the harsh glare of the television. He’s overwarm, piled in too many blankets and sweaty. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wishes he hadn’t. He always feels like shit when he naps. 

Sitting up, Louis pulls the blankets off himself and swipes his hair off his brow, trying to cool down a bit. He thinks he was maybe having a dream, something about dogs running through the woods, trying to get somewhere. 

No, not dogs. Wolves. 

He can’t be dreaming about Harry though. That wouldn’t make any sense. He hasn’t got weird prophetic dreams like Liam, so unless Liam has somehow transferred his ability to him, Louis is clearly still worked up about Harry not being here. And like, Liam couldn’t, right? That’s not — It’s not like Liam’s actually psychic or anything. He couldn’t be. 

_Your best mate’s a werewolf_ , a voice in his head says, sounding suspiciously like Zayn. Louis doesn’t even want to get into that. _Probably anything’s possible_. 

A howl interrupts his thoughts, his heart rate spiking at the sound. Louis blinks, wondering if he’s actually gone mad and just imagined it when it happens again, a loud howl piercing through the silence. A familiar howl. 

He goes to the window, peering out into the garden, cursing when he realizes he hasn’t left the light on and can’t see for shit. He untangles himself from the pile of blankets and makes his way downstairs, stumbling in the dark toward the back door. 

Louis flips the light on, his chest expanding at the sight of Harry, sat on the back porch, tongue lolling out of his mouth and looking like he’s waiting patiently for Louis to come fetch him. 

He opens the door, putting a hand to his hip as he addresses him. “Thought you were meant to be with your wolf buddies,” he says, but Harry only tilts his head at him. Louis stares, and Harry barks once. 

He supposes it’s a good enough answer. 

“Come on then,” he says, widening the door so Harry can run in. His nails — claws? — tap on the tile and then the hardwood as he scampers through the flat. Louis follows him slowly, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He’s just — he’s confused. Harry’s been so odd lately, so distant, and Louis was sure the whole point of him going to Niall and Bressie’s was to like, be away from Louis. So what does it mean if the wolf comes home? Is it instinct? Do werewolves have instincts like that? 

Louis wishes he knew more, wishes he wasn’t entirely clueless and wishes that Harry would answer him when he asks. Instead he gets vague non-answers, and Louis understands that it’s pretty much none of his business, but Harrywolf is sort of making it his business. He’s concerned and he’s curious, and fuck, he likes Harry and wants to help. He doesn’t understand why Harry won’t let him. 

Shaking it off, Louis makes his way into his bedroom, huffing out a laugh when he sees Harry on his bed, curled up right in the middle on top of all of the blankets. He lifts his head when Louis walks in, making a strange sort of rumbly noise at him. It does something funny to Louis’ chest. 

He decides not to think about it. Harry’s here, in his bed, actually wanting to be in Louis’ company. There’s no way of knowing how he’ll feel tomorrow when he changes back, and there’s no telling when Louis is going to have another chance. He might as well take it. 

He turns the overhead light off and slips into bed, pushing at Harry’s hulking form. “Budge up, there’s enough bed for both of us,” he says, laughing when Harry whines and rolls over, wiggling around until he’s settled. Louis lays down on his back, arms over his stomach until Harry prods at him with his cold, wet nose and he lifts his arm. Harry settles his head on Louis’ chest and Louis runs his hand through Harry’s fur until they both drift into sleep.

—

Louis wakes a second time with fur in his mouth and an arm that’s gone completely numb. The sun’s streaming in through the window onto his legs, making them much hotter than the rest of his body. There’s a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck and he feels pretty awful, actually, but Harry’s still in the bed next to him so it’s not all bad. 

He should get out of the bed. He should get out of the bed and take a shower and let Harry get dressed and not talk about it and avoid any more potential awkwardness. That’s definitely what he should do. 

Before he can, though, Harry shifts, makes a small noise and stretches, knocking Louis in the face with his elbow. 

“Ow,” Louis says, before he can stop himself, and Harry jumps, turns over and flattens himself to the wall, pulling the blankets toward himself. His eyes are wide, almost scared. Something twists in Louis’ chest. 

“Sorry,” he says, holding up a hand in surrender. “I didn’t — You whacked me.” 

Harry blinks. “Sorry,” he says, his voice a deep rasp. “How, um. Did I — Come here?” 

“Yeah.” Louis nods. “Showed up ‘round three. I didn’t want to send you away,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. He’s not sure Harry would even have gone if Louis had refused to let him in. “You were alone, you know?” 

“Right,” Harry says, nodding. “That’s um, that’s fine. Thank you. I should — ” He sits up and Louis mirrors him, trying to give him room to get out. 

“Harry,” he says, as Harry’s trying to wrap the sheet around his waist and get off the bed at the same time. He stills, but doesn’t look at Louis. Louis takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. For — whatever it is, that I did, I mean. That made you — That offended you or hurt you or whatever. I’m sorry.” 

Louis watches Harry’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He still doesn’t look over. “You didn’t do anything,” he says, and Louis snorts before he can stop it. 

“Bullshit,” he says. “Something’s wrong, you’ve been avoiding me. I know when people are avoiding me.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump and Louis knows he’s got it. “You haven’t done anything,” he says. “It’s not you, it’s me.” 

He winces as he says it, and Louis rolls his eyes. More non-answers, then. He sighs. “Fine,” he says, “but you know I only want — I’m just worried about you, is all. I like, I dunno. I want to help.” 

“Trust me,” Harry says, sounding bitter and slightly-ominous. “You really, really can’t.” 

Louis only just restrains himself from rolling his eyes again. “Not with that attitude, definitely.” 

Harry shifts on the bed. “Louis,” he starts, but Louis interrupts him. 

“It’s fine, Harry. It’s your life, I’m not trying to like, guilt you or anything. Sorry if that’s what’s happening. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but. I’m always here, okay?” he adds, tentatively resting his hand on Harry’s. Harry doesn’t move. It’s probably not a win, but Louis counts it as one anyway. 

“Okay,” Harry says eventually, staring down at the floor. He pulls his hand from under Louis’. “Thank you. I’ll — “ He gestures out the door and Louis nods. He scoots back to lean against the wall as Harry exits the room, breathing out a long sigh. Not the conversation he’d hoped for, but better than nothing, he supposes. Better than nothing.

—

Winter approaches with more gusto than Louis appreciates. Cold seeps into the daytime as December begins, the days growing shorter and shorter as Louis laments the loss of sunlight. Harry continues to avoid him, but that may be because of his finals and not necessarily because of the awkwardness. 

Well, it’s partly the awkwardness, Louis knows, but it’s also probably partly the finals. He hopes. 

The night shift sees more and more new patients admitted — holidays are always a time for injury; Louis’ just glad he’s not an A&E nurse — and his shifts get busier, which means there’s less time for him to stand around and worry about Harry and what’s gone wrong with them. It’s a blessing, mostly, but it also means that he’s exhausted when he gets home, but when he gets into bed he finds himself incapable of sleeping. He knows it’s because he’d gotten used to Harry being there, and he feels so stupid about it. Who gets used to someone in their bed after a month? Who’s still upset about it a month later? Louis, apparently. 

One night after a particularly rough shift, Louis bypasses his bed completely and makes his way up the stairs. Harry’s not on his futon, but Louis hadn’t expected him to be. He also doesn’t expect the window leading to the roof to be open, but it is, and before he can think twice about it, Louis is crawling over Harry’s bed and climbing out of it, making his way onto the roof. 

Harry’s out there, sitting next to his brass telescope, wrapped in a blanket from Louis’ room and staring at the sky. There’s a thermos next to him, still closed, and he looks so peaceful that Louis almost wants to turn around and go back down. 

“I heard you climb up,” Harry says, before Louis can do anything and startling him. Louis doesn’t say anything, just stands there awkwardly. Harry doesn’t sound mad, doesn’t sound like he wants him to go, but he’s also not particularly inviting. 

He looks at Louis and his breath catches in his chest. It feels like the first time they’ve made eye contact in weeks. Fuck, it probably is. 

“You can sit,” Harry says, and somehow Louis’ brain kicks itself into gear. He’s still in his work clothes; the pair of scrubs he’d had to take from the supply closet because his others got too bloodied to wear. He’d had to chuck them in the biohazard bin and attempt to clean off his Adidas. He’d done the best that he could, but he’s sure the stains are still there. 

He takes a seat on the other side of Harry’s telescope so it’s between them. He figures Harry wants the space, or whatever. 

Louis draws his knees up to his chest and stares up at the sky, not really knowing what he’s looking at besides stars, but finding it peaceful anyway. 

“You looking for something in particular?” Louis asks without glancing over. “Or are you just looking?” 

“Dunno,” Harry responds. “Thought I might try to find this one constellation, but I don’t think it’s dark enough.” 

Louis looks at him, eyebrow raised. Harry’s looking down, fiddling with something on his shoe. Louis takes a deep breath and looks back up. 

“We lost a kid today,” he says, blinking. He doesn’t even know if Harry’s really paying attention, but he supposes that’s not the point. He just needs to get it out. “Like, out of nowhere, it feels like. She was — God, she was stable after surgery and two hours into it she started seizing and the doctors came in and opened her up right there.” He swallows around a lump and clears his throat. 

Continues, strained, “There was so much blood, like, just everywhere. An internal bleed, or something, an artery that blew. It happened so fast and no one — There was nothing anyone could do. She just. Died.” 

He’d stumbled on the doctor telling the parents, afterward, when everything had been cleaned up and the girl taken down to the morgue. They’d gone back home to shower, sure that she’d be alright. They’d both gone. The little girl had been alone. 

Louis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales slowly. He repeats it until he doesn’t feel like crying anymore, and he looks over at Harry. 

Harry, who’s looking at him with big sad eyes and a crease to his brow that looks almost painful. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Louis shrugs, laughs but there’s no emotion in it. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says, uselessly. Harry knows that. Harry’s probably not apologizing for the girl. 

“I know,” he says, “but that’s not — I’m sorry for the other stuff. The distance.” 

Louis shrugs, shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say about it. “Thanks,” he decides on, though it doesn’t feel right. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose.” 

Harry exhales shakily and looks away, his hand curling into a fist on his thigh. Not like he’s mad, though. Like he’s nervous. 

“It does matter,” he says, not looking at Louis. “It _does_ matter, Louis because — ” 

Louis waits for him to finish, hanging there, feeling like he’s on the edge of a bloody cliff, his body tight with tension and he’s not sure why. “Because,” he prods, trying not to sound impatient. Harry looks at him, but stays quiet. 

“I found out why — how I, changed. Why I changed, I suppose,” he says eventually, stumbling over it. Louis’ throat goes suddenly and inexplicably tight. He’s not sure he wants to hear what Harry’s going to say. 

“Yeah?” he says anyway, because he’s not going to scare Harry off again. 

“It’s, um. Genetic.” 

Louis frowns. “So, what, your mum’s a werewolf and has hidden it from you your whole life? Your dad?” 

Harry bites his lip. “My mum,” he confirms, and clears his throat. “And not…really. It’s um. I guess the kind of wolves we are don’t always like, change. Sometimes it’s just dormant or whatever. Forever.” 

Louis’ frown deepens. “So, what’s different about you, then?” 

Harry looks away, rubbing a hand across his mouth. He looks back, making eye contact briefly before looking down. “I found my soul mate,” he says, and Louis can’t help it. 

He laughs. 

“What?” he says, clearing his throat, trying to be serious. “Is that — are you joking?” 

Harry still won’t look at him. He shakes his head. “No. It’s like.” He laughs, watery and almost bleak. “Like, you don’t turn unless you find your soulmate. Unless you’re in love with them.” 

Louis blinks. “Oh,” he says, in lieu of anything else. In lieu of _so who the fuck are you in love with_ or _why did you wait so long to tell me_? He feels strangely, a knot twisting tighter and tighter in his stomach at the thought of Harry in love with someone. At the thought of Harry finding his perfect match. 

“Niall and Bressie?” he ventures, frowning still. 

“They’re mates,” Harry nods. 

Louis swallows. “Okay,” he says. He shouldn’t ask. It’s not his business. Fuck, when has that ever stopped him before? “And your mate?”

Harry shrugs. “Dunno,” he says, and it’s a blatant lie but Louis figures he deserves that, but it’s also ridiculous. 

“Come on, you can tell me,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I probably don’t even know them, right?” 

Harry shrugs again, looking supremely uncomfortable. He doesn’t answer, and Louis doesn’t push any more. He figures that’s enough for now. 

“Thanks for telling me,” he says, and Harry nods. 

They don’t say anything else, but when they finally stand and pack up Harry’s telescope, Harry follows him down the stairs and into his room, wringing his hands together nervously until Louis slides into the bed and lifts the covers for him to do the same. He only offers because Harry looks torn up still, his lip bitten red and his mouth tight. 

He looks down at the bed and up at Louis, eyes wide, searching. Louis shrugs, waggles his eyebrows to try and get a laugh out of him. Harry smiles, a small thing, some of the tension in his shoulders disappearing. He slides in the bed, his back to Louis. He doesn’t move away when Louis pulls the covers over them, or when he rests an arm around his waist in a loose spoon. 

Breath by breath, Louis can see Harry relaxing, melting into the bed like he used to. He smiles to himself, closes his eyes. 

Louis falls asleep faster than he has in weeks.

—

They sleep late into the next morning, until the sun’s well into the sky and it’s too hot to be under the covers anymore. Or, Louis does, at least. The bed’s empty when he opens his eyes, but still warm under the covers, right where Harry’s body was. 

The creak of the stairs draws his attention, followed by the groan of the loose floorboard just outside of Louis’ door. He looks up, a sleepy smile stretching across his face before he can think better of it. 

“Hiya,” he says, but Harry doesn’t smile back. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, looking at Louis but also not looking at him. Looking through him, maybe. 

“I lied yesterday,” Harry says, and Louis’ stomach fills with lead. “About my soulmate. I know who it is.” 

Louis licks his lips. “Okay,” he says slowly. He doesn’t — It must be Zayn, right? Or Liam. Or Niall. Can he be soulmates with someone who’s already got one? 

“It’s you,” he says, but Louis must hear him wrong. It must be a joke. Louis stares at him, waiting for him to do something. Harry doesn’t say anything else, though, just continues to look around the room. 

“It’s not,” Louis says, his voice a rasp. Harry looks at him sharply, brow furrowed. “If it were me you would’ve — “ Louis stops, face scrunching in confusion. “You would’ve told me before. We’re — You’re my best mate, you would’ve said something.” 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. He looks — Louis can’t decipher it. He looks sad, ashamed, maybe. Heartbroken. Louis doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react. 

“I’m telling you now,” Harry says, voice cracking in a way that makes Louis’ breath hitch. 

He’d thought that Harry would tell him anything, thought they were close enough that he wouldn’t even debate coming to Louis with something like this. Louis was wrong though, clearly, and he feels like an idiot for it. And he feels like an idiot for feeling like an idiot, because this is actually huge. Harry loves him. He’s Harry’s soulmate, and apparently it’s not even like, a subjective thing because Harry’s been turning into a fucking wolf about it. A wolf. 

Louis would laugh, if he thought he could manage it. 

“Please say something,” Harry says, still sounding impossibly sad. 

Louis breathes out. “Dunno what you want me to say.” He looks at Harry, shrugging. “I need time to like, process. You — I thought you would — You could’ve told me sooner.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, rubbing at his neck. “Okay.” 

“I just need time,” Louis repeats, running a hand through his hair. 

Harry shrugs. “Take it.” He pushes himself off the door frame, takes a step back. “Take all the time you need.” 

Louis can’t think of anything to say as he leaves.

—

So. Harry’s in love with him. 

It makes sense, Louis supposes. Not a whole lot of sense, because Louis feels like he’s observant enough to notice when someone’s falling in love with him, but maybe he’s not. Maybe he just got so caught up in Harry being a werewolf that he forgot all the stuff leading up to it. The late nights and the cuddling and the warm feeling in his chest whenever Harry would so much as look his way. If that’s what Louis was feeling, he can’t even imagine what it was like for Harry. Fuck, Harry felt so much he couldn’t even control it. He had to literally take on another form to deal with it. 

Louis laughs to himself, disbelieving, and puts his face in his hands. He hasn’t moved from his bedroom since Harry left, though that must’ve been hours ago. Louis doesn’t actually know, though. He doesn’t really know much of anything. 

When he thinks back on it, before Harry got distant and weird, he thinks, well, he’s pretty sure that he was well on his way to love. To really, really loving Harry. He must not have been there yet, though, or else he would’ve turned with him. That’s how it works, isn’t it? Harry hadn’t really explained, but Louis’ smarter than a lot of people give him credit for. You fall in love, you turn into a wolf. But he’d also said it was genetic. So maybe… maybe Louis doesn’t have the gene. 

That still doesn’t answer whether or not he’s in love with Harry, though. Louis’ not sure he has an answer. 

—

Eventually, Louis leaves his room. He wanders into the kitchen to make himself some food and goes back to his room, pulling up his laptop to try and distract himself from, well, everything. He tries watching a few different shows on Netflix, but nothing holds his attention. It keeps drifting, thinking about Harry being so in love with him that he felt like he couldn’t tell him, being so in love with him that he turned into a wolf. Louis just can’t get over it. He doesn’t know why. 

Liam comes in later that night, sits down next to him on the bed without saying anything and flicks his ear. 

“Fuck off,” Louis says, and slaps him in the chest. “Did you know Harry was in love with me?” 

Liam scratches his ear. “I dunno,” he says, “I don’t think I dreamed about it, if that’s what you mean. But like, I knew.” 

Louis stares at him for a long moment, then picks up a pillow and tries to smother him with it. “You didn’t think you should tell me? Didn’t want to share?” 

“I thought you knew!” Liam flails at him, trying to push Louis off, but Louis’ not having it. “It was obvious!” 

“Not to me,” Louis says, hitting him with the pillow until Liam grabs it and pulls it out of his hands. “It wasn’t to me.” 

He sighs, tired, and Liam frowns up at him. “Do you not love him back?” 

Louis grimaces. “I dunno. I haven’t thought about it.” 

“Why not?” Liam asks like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s so simple to just decide to love someone. Maybe it is, maybe it could be, but Louis has a habit of making things difficult for himself. 

“Scared, I guess,” he says, shrugging. “I mean. Soulmates. That’s like. Serious. I haven’t known him that long, and it’s — I dunno. It feels too easy, you know? Like. Here he is, you’ll love him forever.” Louis flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Things like that don’t happen to me.” 

Liam makes a humming noise. “Maybe they do now.” 

Louis snorts at him. “Fat chance.” He pauses, thinking it over. “It just seems. I dunno. Like if I take the chance then it’ll just like, blow up in my face.” 

“Fair,” Liam says, considering, and adds, “But think of what might happen if you don’t.” 

Louis doesn’t have an answer for that. 

—

The next day, Louis walks into the kitchen to find Harry at the hob, in just a t-shirt and boxers, humming to himself as he cooks something. His hair’s up in a messy bun that’s tilted sort of precariously to the side, and part of his shirt’s ridden up to show a strip of smooth, pale skin above his waistband. 

Something warm unfurls in Louis’ chest and he thinks, _this boy loves me_. He still doesn’t know whether or not he loves him too. He knows that he’d like to fit himself to Harry’s back, put a hand on that exposed hip and slide it up under his shirt to feel his warmth. Maybe that’s an answer in itself. 

“Morning,” he says, staying where he is as Harry turns around. 

“Morning,” Harry parrots, sounding uneasy. “You want some? Eggs.” 

So no avoidance. At least not yet. Louis nods at him and moves to make their tea, steeping Harry’s longer and putting a sprinkle of sugar in, just how he likes it. He sets the mug down just as Harry’s plating up the eggs and turns around to pop some bread in the toaster. 

He opens the fridge, sticking his head in. “You want jam?” 

“Marmalade, please,” Harry responds, the silverware drawer rattling open and then closed again. Louis grabs the jars and sets them on the table just in time to grab the toast out of the toaster with pinched fingers. 

“Fuck, ow,” he says, tossing one onto Harry’s plate and the other onto his. Harry chuckles and Louis looks up at him, face melting into a smile. 

“You just like to see me suffer,” he says, eyes narrowing. Harry laughs again, the sound of it releasing something Louis’ chest, making him feel a bit floaty. 

“You’re right, I’ve got a kink for it,” Harry says, grabbing the marmalade. “You’ve found me out.” 

Louis laughs and rolls his eyes, falling into silence as he tries to open the jam jar, but it’s stuck or something, the sticky residue having congealed and sealing the lid to the glass. He picks up the butter knife, intent on prising it off, but Harry reaches over and plucks it out of his hand, giving it one hard tap on the table and twisting the lid smoothly off. 

He grins, triumphant, as he hands the jar back to Louis. Louis stares at it, betrayed. “I loosened it for you,” he says, a beat too late, and Harry laughs. 

Louis takes the jar and spreads it on his toast, falling quiet as they eat. Harry keeps gently knocking his feet into Louis’ under the table and trying to steal bits of egg off his plate, but it’s nice. Comfortable. Not oppressive, like it has been between them for so long. 

_Yeah, I could love him_ , Louis thinks, and takes another bite of his eggs. 

—

After that morning, Louis stays at Harry’s side as often as he can. It’s easier now that Harry’s done with his finals and has only taken the night shifts at the library for the foreseeable future. So any time Louis has off, Harry does too, and they spend it together. They take walks — or sometimes go for runs, when Harry can talk Louis into it — that usually devolve into stuffing snow down each others’ coats and they do the weekly shopping together and they sit around and play video games with Zayn and Liam. They just do normal stuff, things you’d do with a mate or whatever. 

But there’s also the sleeping thing, where Harry slides into Louis’ bed every night and Louis curls himself around him and pretends that he didn’t suffer for a month without it. There’s the looks Harry gives him when he must think Louis can’t see, with the bright eyes that make Louis want to turn to him fully and just fucking kiss him. But he can’t. He can’t. 

It’s too much pressure, for one thing. Too much could go wrong and too much rides on everything going right. He already almost lost Harry once, he couldn’t lose him again for real. He couldn’t. It’s better this way. 

—

“Niall's invited us for dinner," Harry says one day about a week later, while they're in the kitchen dumping all of Liam's boxers in the sink and putting them into plastic bags to put in the freezer. 

Louis looks up from his pair, eyebrow raised. "Both of us?" 

Harry nods, "Said he wanted you to come specifically."

That's slightly foreboding, Louis thinks, because he doesn't possibly know what it is that Niall wants with him. Harry's the wolf, the one with the shared experience. Louis is just the guy he's in love with, or something. 

"Well. If he wants me," Louis says and wrings out the cloth with a satisfying splatter. He glances at Harry, who's running his under the tap and smiling softly to himself. It's cuter than it should be. Louis rolls his eyes at himself and knocks into Harry’s hip on purpose on the way to the freezer, laughing at the yelp he lets out.

They don't go until the next week, because Louis can't for the life of him get anyone to trade his shift and Harry has some sort of tutoring thing for one of his classes, even though he’s already taken his exams. Something about a group project? Louis isn’t sure. He was having a hard time focusing on something that wasn’t Harry’s bare chest, since he was just standing there shirtless while he was telling Louis. Louis would feel bad about it, but it’s not like he’s hurt anyone. 

In any case, it’s enough time between the invite and the actual event that Louis gets himself worked up about it, even though it's ridiculous. He's met Niall and Bressie before, and however brief it was it still happened. He just can't seem to convince his brain that it's really not a big deal. 

Harry puts a hand to the back of Louis’ neck, giving it a reassuring squeeze before he reaches out and knocks on the door. The touch is oddly calmly, settling in a way that Louis doesn’t have time to examine, because the door is swinging open and Niall’s standing right there, arms open and shouting out his greeting. He pulls Harry into a large hug, and sets his sight on Louis when he pulls away. 

“You made it,” he says, and Louis doesn’t have time to answer before he’s being squeezed ‘round the middle by a bloke he barely knows. 

“I made it,” he says with a wheeze, trying to pat Niall on the back at least, but Niall’s grip is too tight. 

“Let the poor lad go, Niall,” Bressie says, walking into the entrance way. Niall makes a strange sort of grumbly noise — that reminds Louis of Harry a bit, actually — and pulls away. Louis flashes Bressie a grateful smile and gives Niall a pat on the shoulder as they enter. 

The flat is upstairs, tiny and cozy and filled with pictures of people Louis guesses are their family. There’s some artwork on the walls; a small tapestry on one wall with some sort of animal painted on it, a few framed prints, and an assortment of figurines on a bookshelf, arranged in some strange sort of scene. Louis makes a mental note to look at it more closely later. 

“Homey,” he says to Niall, who beams, looking pleased as punch, and shuffles into the next room. Bressie follows him, and Louis and Harry follow Bressie into a small dining nook, just off the kitchen. They’ve crammed a table in, stuck four mismatched chairs around the edge and there’s already plates set out. 

Louis stands next to Harry at the breakfast bar, leaning into his side a bit as he rests his elbows on the surface. He feels Harry press into him, but can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not. It feels so natural to be in each other’s space so much of the time that Louis isn’t really sure what it means. If it means anything. If Harry’s doing it because he’s in love with him or just because he’s comfortable. Or both. 

“D’you have a preference,” Niall says, pulling Louis back into what’s happening. He blinks a few times, looking around the kitchen and trying to figure out what Niall might be referring to. 

“Ah,” Louis says, and Harry laughs beside him. 

“He doesn’t,” Harry says, shaking his head. “He’ll eat anything.” 

Oh, right. That makes sense. He leans a bit more into Harry, trying to tell him _good save_. Harry nudges him back. 

Louis flashes Niall a grin. “I’m not particular. Some people,” a sharp side-glance at Harry, who frowns at him, “think that means I’ve got an unrefined palate, but what do they know?” 

“Heyyyy,” Harry protests, his frown deepening. “S’not my fault you’re a heathen.” 

“Never complained when I ate the food you made,” Louis responds huffily. “What’s that say about you, then, that a heathen liked me liked what you cooked?” 

Harry smiles at him, looking like a dog that’s got scratched it its sweet spot. Damn it. That’s not what Louis wanted. Well, okay, yes it is what he wanted, because he always wants Harry happy, but he was trying to tease him. It’s gone wrong, somehow. 

“You like what I cooked for you,” Harry says, still with that look on his face, and Louis sighs, terribly put upon. 

“Don’t go on about it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you never knew before.” 

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, but.” He bites his lip, laughing. He shrugs again and Louis shakes his head. 

“There’s some wine in the fridge if you want to grab it,” Bressie says, and Louis jumps on the opportunity, crossing to the fridge to escape Harry’s smugness. He snatches up the corkscrew and twists it in, but when he tugs it, it doesn’t budge. 

“Fuck off,” he says, pulling again, grunting when the cork stays put. A large hand wraps around the neck of the bottle and prises it away gently. Louis frowns as Harry adjusts the corkscrew a bit and then pulls it out smoothly, the cork coming with it, intact. 

Louis narrows his eyes at it, and turns his gaze to Harry, who doesn’t look any less smug than he did before. “Have you quite finished?” he says, and Harry laughs in that stupid honking way he has that Louis adores. Fuck. 

“Hey, Brez, get them —“ Niall starts, but Bressie swoops in with four wine glasses in hand, gives them to Louis and turns back to grab something on the shelf over Niall’s head. A strainer, for the pasta, and he puts it in the sink, moving out of the way just as Niall picks up the pot and pours it in. 

Watching them move together is mesmerising, and Louis finds himself unable to move from his corner as Bressie and Niall work seamlessly. Bressie puts down a spoon and Niall picks it up to stir and taste the sauce. He reaches for the salt that Bressie’s already holding out and it’s just — like they’ve been doing it forever, like they really are just two halves of the same whole. 

_Soulmates_ , Louis thinks, and feels something twist in his chest.

—

The dinner is lovely and Louis finds that Bressie’s got a killer sense of humour and he’s got more interests in common with Niall that he’d have thought. He likes them, genuinely likes them, which makes it all the more difficult to watch them be soulmate-y or whatever. In love. Bressie’s so gentle with Niall, especially when he thinks Niall isn’t paying attention, and Niall is always, always looking out for him, doing things for him, though clearly not out of obligation. It’s strange to explain, one of those things you just have to see yourself and every time Louis’ privy to it after that night it makes his chest ache for something he can’t name. Someone, maybe. He’s not sure. 

It’s confusing and slightly painful and there’s a question in there somewhere that Louis already knows the answer to, but he can’t let himself think about it. Honestly it’s just easier not to wonder why he feels something tug at his heart when he looks at Niall and Bressie, and it’s only out of self-preservation that he doesn’t question why Harry looks at them with shining, hopeful eyes. He also doesn’t question why it is he’s looking at Harry instead of anywhere else. 

—

“You’re being selfish,” Zayn says to him a few days later while they’re upstairs. They’re the only two home — Liam and Harry gone on a jog together, _gag_ — and they’re watching some boring as shit show on the telly. 

Or, Zayn’s watching. Louis’ sitting upside down on the couch. 

He blinks up at Zayn, his head pounding. Zayn, apparently, doesn’t pull any punches. Louis already sort of knew that, so he’s not surprised, but he’s still not going to give in that easily. “You could just say you want more room,” he says. “You don’t have to be dramatic about it.” 

Zayn levels him with a look. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.” 

Louis sighs and sits up. “I know,” he says, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He really, really doesn’t. 

“Too bad.” Zayn sounds short, like he’s really pissed off, and fuck, maybe he is. Louis shrinks a bit, all his fight leaving him. It hardly seems worth it when he’ll need to face it sooner or later. 

“Let me have it, then.” 

“You can’t just keep pretending to care about him,” Zayn says, and it hits Louis like a bucket of ice over his head. “It really messed him up last time. I can’t watch that again.” 

“First of all, fuck you,” Louis says, trying to keep control of his voice. “And second, I didn’t — he’s the one who pulled away from me. He avoided me. I had no say in it. I didn’t do anything to him.” 

_Pretending to care about him_ , rings in his ears, makes his head pound. Does Harry really think he’s just pretending to care? He can’t. He must know.

“Except not love him back,” Zayn says, and Louis scoffs, but it’s a front. Panic rises inside him, constricting his chest. 

“You don’t know that,” he says, sounding only a touch breathless. 

Zayn raises an eyebrow, juts his chin out. “Don’t I?” 

“No,” Louis says, voice hard. The fuck does Zayn think he’s talking about? “You don’t. I appreciate you looking out for him, but I’m not pretending. I was never pretending.” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a long, tense moment. Louis doesn’t look away. He won’t look away. 

“Good,” Zayn says eventually. “Make sure he knows that.” 

—

Unconsciously or not, Louis starts to temper his interactions with Harry, trying not to lead him on until he sorts his shit out. It’s hard, though, because Harry’s always there and always opening his arms for a hug or a cuddle and it’s just so easy for Louis to lean his head down or bury his face between Harry’s shoulder blades. He knows he’s sending the wrong message and being unfair and — as Zayn’s glares remind him — selfish, but it feels too good to stop. It feels right, like the first time he volunteered on the paediatric floor or the first time he aced a class in his nursing program. He feels like it’s what he should be doing, even if he can’t really get his head sorted about it all. 

The time together’s so good that Louis forgets it has to end, actually. Doesn’t even register it at all until Harry asks him what he’s doing for the holiday as they lounge about upstairs. 

“Going home, probably,” he says, trying to think of when he’ll actually need to start packing. Fairly soon, probably. Oh god, and he’ll have to call his mum. “You?” 

“Um.” Harry flushes pink. “Well, it’s — the full moon’s the day before, y’know, so I thought I might stay here and then go home on Christmas day.” 

Louis blinks. “That’s my birthday,” he says. He hadn’t even realized. 

“I know.” Harry’s not looking at him. Fuck, Louis can’t leave him alone. He can’t, not after Harry literally ran back to him last time. 

“I think I’d rather spend my birthday here,” he says hesitantly, obviously. Harry makes a weird sound, a strange sort of whine that makes Louis’ spine tingle.

“You don’t have to stay for me. I’ll be fine.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Harry, you ran back here last month. Literally, ran. Howled at the door for me to let you in.” 

Harry’s flush deepens, he looks away. “I know. But I’ll be okay. I’ll have Zayn stay, or something. Liam maybe.” 

Louis stares at him. Honestly, it’s probably a good idea for him to leave, to let them get some distance from each other and for Louis to figure out his feelings. He just — Doncaster’s a good drive from Leeds, much too far for a wolf to run, and the thought of Harry with Zayn or with Liam is just — No. 

But he also doesn’t want to push. Doesn’t want Harry to resent him or think he won’t listen, because the wolf thing isn’t — well, it is about Louis, but Harry deserves as much control over as possible, and if that means Louis leaves then that means he leaves. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, just in case. 

Harry half-shrugs, half-nods. “Yeah, I mean. I don’t want to take you away from your family.” 

_You’re just as important as they are_ , he thinks. He can’t tell if it’d be too unfair of him to say.

—

Christmas approaches much more quickly than Louis would like. 

He and the boys do their shopping and fight over the washing machine to be able to do their laundry before they go. Zayn’s decided he’ll stay with Harry until Christmas and they can go up together. The thought of it makes Louis annoyed, raises his hackles for no real reason. He hasn’t got a right to be possessive of Harry. Maybe if he tells himself enough, he’ll start to really believe it. 

On his birthday, Louis wakes feeling odd, sort of shaky and feverish. Harry’s skin has a low burn of its own, so he chalks it up to being pressed together under the covers with him for hours and hours. The feeling gets better once he’s gotten into the kitchen and eaten something, downgraded to a strange subtle humming under his skin. Not entirely unpleasant, but definitely not something he’s familiar with. Whatever. He shakes it off, makes himself a mug of tea and shuffles back into his room. 

Harry’s there, sitting in the middle of the bed, surrounded by blankets. His hair’s all funny and his skin is flushed. He looks miserable, but he still smiles at Louis like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. 

“Nuh-uh,” Louis says, trying to stifle the sudden rapid pounding of his heart. “Don’t even think about it. This tea’s mine.” 

Harry’s smile falls into a pout so quickly that Louis laughs, feeling like he’s floating on air and gets back into the bed. 

“We can share, I suppose,” he says, and Harry rumbles out a pleased noise and sticks his face in Louis’ neck. 

“Thank you,” he rasps out, breath hot on Louis’ neck and Louis barely manages to suppress a shiver. 

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Louis mutters, his arm going around Harry’s waist, letting his head rest on top of Harry’s. The humming under his skin intensifies for a moment, a flash and zip like a power surge before it calms down again. Louis’ got no idea what that means. 

They sit quietly, sharing the tea until it’s just the dregs and Harry’s more like a person than a cuddle monster. 

“Hey,” he says, nudging his nose up under Louis’ jaw.

Louis ignores the way his own voice shakes when he responds, “What?”

“Happy birthday,” Harry murmurs, his mouth brushing Louis’ skin ever-so gently, barely there, but still enough for another surge of electricity to zip down Louis’ spine. 

He clears his throat, moving away slightly. It’s too much. He can’t — It’s too much. “Thanks,” he says, and stares at his lap so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment on Harry’s face. Harry stays quiet for so long that Louis has to look eventually, but his face is blank. It’s almost worse. 

“Harry,” he starts, but Harry smiles at him, blinding and brings a hand up to ruffle his hair. 

“C’mon, it’s your birthday,” he says, sliding out of bed. “Let’s go celebrate.” 

Louis watches him leave the room, takes a moment to gather himself and follows. There’s not much else for him to do. 

—

The celebration isn’t terribly big, as Louis’ going to have to leave at a somewhat reasonable hour to get home in time to open the presents his family has gotten for him for his birthday. It’s not a huge deal, but he’s already said he’ll be home and his mum will be disappointed otherwise, and no matter how old he gets, Louis still can’t stand to do that. 

Liam and Zayn have taken the day off just for Louis, and Niall and Bressie come over around lunch time to eat the feast that Harry’s prepared and to celebrate with the rest of them. They watch a film while they eat — _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ , because it’s the only thing they can agree on — which obviously means they spend the whole time shouting things at the screen to make each other laugh. (Louis makes Harry laugh by far the most times, the humming under his skin getting louder each time he does. If that’s not the point, then Louis doesn’t know what is.) 

Harry turns off the telly once the movie’s finished and he disappears into the kitchen, leaving the five of them sitting in the dark. It’s not until he walks out with a cake covered in candles that he understands what’s happening. Harry looks entirely too pleased with himself, his smile cast in candlelight and his unwavering voice starting the round of _Happy Birthday_. Louis laughs, glad for the poor lighting to hide his flush and blows out the candles and they all eat it ‘round the table, the six of them getting the chocolate everywhere and making a general mess. It’s lovely and it’s just what Louis wants, really. Well, mostly what he wants. 

Louis stays there with him until he can’t anymore, until he’s in serious ‘disappointing mum’ territory and has to leave. 

He packs the car, ignoring Harry’s sullen looks as he carries his stuff out and comes back in to grab everything else. Harry gives him a big hug that lasts entirely too long and Louis lets him, holds on tight and doesn’t let go. The humming has graduated to a full-blown simmer now, the prolonged contact only making it worse, making it burn brighter. 

“Have a good time,” Harry mumbles into his hair. He feels hot already, the fever that comes with his change already setting in. 

“I’ll try,” Louis says. “You tell your mum hi for me.” 

Harry laughs and pulls away. He looks at him curiously. “She doesn’t know you.”

Louis shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Tell her anyway.” 

Harry smiles down at him. “Yeah, alright.” 

“Good,” Louis says, and sways forward, as if to go up on his toes to kiss him. It’d be so easy, is the thing, it’d feel so natural. He can see it so clearly in his head. Just, lifting himself up and pressing their mouths together. It stuns him, the fact that he’s really actually almost kissed Harry, and he sways back. 

Harry must read it on his face because he blinks and clears his throat, taking a step back. The space between them feels wrong, makes his heart twist and something claw at his chest. Louis ignores it. He has to. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

Harry blinks. “I’ll see you, um. For New Years, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Louis nods, his head buzzing. He grips his keys tighter in his hand, the bite of metal clearing his head a bit. “See you,” he says and gets into the car, drives out the driveway and doesn’t look back. 

—

It takes a bit in the car for Louis to stop feeling shaky, to snap out of his daze. Almost kissing Harry isn’t something he needs to get so worked up over. It’s not — Harry loves him, he knows, and he’s exceedingly fond of Harry and they’re not going to be together for the first time since this whole wolf thing started. It’s a lot, and it’s understandable that emotions are running high. Almost kissing him doesn’t _mean_ anything. It doesn’t have to. Louis can brush it off, ignore it like he does everything else. 

_But I don’t want to brush it off_ , he thinks, nearly floored at the realization. 

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to brush it off. He doesn’t want to forget that he’s almost kissed Harry, that he could probably kiss Harry any time he pleases because Harry loves him. Harry _loves_ him. And Louis loves him too. 

What the fuck is he doing driving to his mum’s?

Louis turns the car around. 

He’s being an idiot. He shouldn’t be going home, not when Harry needs him there. Harry never said he didn’t want Louis there, only said that he didn’t want to keep Louis from his family, and while that’s kind of him, it’s also stupid. Harry’s just as important to him as any member of his family — maybe even more, but don’t tell his mum — and he can’t just leave him, not like this and not when he can easily see his family tomorrow. 

_Not when I almost kissed him and then bolted like a coward_ , he thinks, and presses down on the accelerator. _Not when I love him_. 

He hits traffic on the way back because of a traffic accident, one that must’ve just happened because they haven’t even cleared off the cars or anything. It takes for fucking ever to get through, and it’s not that Louis doesn’t have sympathy, because he does, he’s seen his fair share of accidents like this, but he’s just — he feels manic. Almost rabid with his need to get back to Harry. The longer he sits in a row of unmoving cars, the more his irritation grows, the hotter his blood gets and the stranger he feels. He needs to get back. 

It’s late when he finally pulls up to the house, and too much time alone with his nerves has made him anxious and sweaty, made his stomach twist up into knots. His legs feel shaky as he walks to the door, like he’s forgotten how to walk properly, but that can’t be possible. God, he’s never felt like this. 

Louis lets himself in easily, immediately hearing Harry groan upstairs. There’s a strange sense of relief and worry at the sound; Louis’ not really sure how the whole thing works, doesn’t know if there’s a certain time or whatever that Harry changes, but he’s glad he’s caught him before it. He wants Harry to know he’s here. He also doesn’t want Harry to be hurting, of course, wants to curl himself around him and press himself to all the places that hurt in the hope that it might help. 

Skipping the broken step on the stairs, Louis goes up, but he’s blocked in front of the bathroom door by Zayn, who crosses his arm and stares hard at him. Like a fucking guard dog. 

_A guard dog for the wolf_ , Louis thinks, and laughs at how ridiculous it all is. 

“He asked you to go home,” he says, and Louis’ stomach is still twisted up and he’s still hot, like he’s got a real fever now and he doesn’t want to deal with this. There’s a whine from the bathroom, pained, followed by a heavy thud and a groan. Louis makes a sound low in his throat, almost like a growl. He’s not sure where it came from. 

“He said he didn’t want to keep me from my family. He’s my family,” he says, nearly growling again when Zayn doesn’t move. “Let me see him, Zayn.” 

Zayn narrows his eyes, looking almost as mad as Louis feels. Louis doesn’t know why Zayn’s got it in him that he’s got to be as mad as this, but it’s a major fucking inconvenience. “Why?” 

“Because I want to,” Louis nearly shouts, and the sounds from the bathroom stop for a moment. 

“Louis?” Harry’s voice is muffled, strained like he’s in pain. It takes all of Louis’ self-restraint not to push Zayn out of the way and knock the fucking door down. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, making his voice as gentle as he can. “You gonna let me in?” 

There’s a long pause, seemingly endless before Harry says, voice small, “Yeah. Please.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow at Zayn, who rolls his eyes and steps aside. “Be careful,” Zayn warns, though he doesn’t sound overtly concerned. Maybe he wants Louis to be eaten by the Harrywolf. Louis wouldn’t put it past him, with how he’s been acting these past few weeks. 

Louis ignores him and pushes the door open, closing it quickly and leaning back against it. Harry’s sitting on the floor, shirtless and sweaty, his hair matted to his head save a few stray strands and looking absolutely miserable. His skin’s flushed, muscles in his stomach trembling and Louis loves him. He loves him. 

“Why’d you come back?” Harry asks, breathing heavily, teeth clenched like he’s in pain. His muscles convulse all at once and he cries out, falling forward. Louis catches him easily, his own back twinging in sympathy. 

He gets on his knees, holding Harry’s face in his hands and whispering soothing things to him while he whimpers in pain. Harry’s hands grip at him, tug at his clothes, trying to pull him closer. Louis goes easily, his breath coming a little heavier, his stomach twisting tighter and tighter. He still feels odd. Sick. 

_Lovesick_ , he thinks and nearly laughs at himself. 

“Why’d you come?” Harry asks again, mostly into Louis’ neck this time. 

Louis brushes his sweaty hair away from his face and guides him up so he can look at him. “Forgot to do something before I left,” he says, eyes flicking down to Harry’s mouth. 

Harry’s eyes widen as he leans in, but he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t do anything until Louis mouth meets his, and then he’s inhaling sharply and bringing his hands up to cup Louis’ head. 

Louis kisses him and kisses him, lets his eyes close and lets himself get lost in it because he was right earlier. It does feel good, it feels like the only thing he’s meant to be doing and the only thing he wants to. There’s a thrumming in his chest, like something being stitched together that he hadn’t known was there, only magnified by how Harry kisses him back. 

He pulls away finally, nearly gasping in a breath, his chest gone strange and tight and his skin feeling stretched too tight. 

“You kissed me,” Harry says, and Louis nods. 

“I feel funny,” he says, and Harry makes a face at him. 

“You don’t have to be rude. Just tell me if you didn’t like it,” he says, and Louis laughs until his body seizes suddenly, painfully, like he’s being tugged on from all directions and sat on by an elephant. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, what is that?” he pants, groaning as he loses control of himself, falling into Harry. “What the fuck is happening?” 

“You’re changing,” Harry says, sounding almost dumbstruck. “That’s — I think, at least. I think you’re changing.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Louis chokes out as the pain lessens. He looks at Harry, looks down when Harry’s hand squeezes around his. He doesn’t remember grabbing it. It’s scary, knowing he’ll be a wolf in a few hours, but he doesn’t feel scared. He feels safe, confident. Like he can do anything if Harry’s by his side. How he’s always felt with Harry there. 

He looks back up and grins. “Soulmates, huh?” 

Harry smiles, nearly blinding Louis with it. “Yeah,” he says, “Soulmates.” 

That doesn’t sound so bad, really.


	6. epilogue

Harry paces back and forth, tugging at his lower lip, listening for the creak of the door and the familiar slam that’ll follow it. He’d meant to get home after Louis specifically to avoid this situation, but Louis had gotten stuck in traffic or something and his room was empty when Harry burst into it. 

He’d called Louis right away, and while Louis’ gentle laugh was reassuring, that was half an hour ago and Harry’s impatient. 

Stopping in the middle of the room, Harry fishes his mobile out of his pocket. His finger’s on the call button, ready to push when the door creaks open. His head snaps up and he’s thundering down the stairs, nearly jumping into Louis’ arms as he closes the door. 

He hasn’t seen Louis in a _week_ , not since Louis left on Boxing day to go home. His mum had disappointed, he’d said, looking apologetic as he got into his car again. Harry had to let him go, because his own mum was disappointed too, and it’d been ages since he’d seen his sister. 

The holiday wasn’t all bad — he always enjoyed time spent with his family, and while he didn’t appreciate all the questions from his mum about the wolf stuff (and the Louis stuff), he did like the opportunity to be around her again. It was comforting, is all, especially without Louis. Louis, who he missed an obscene amount and who was finally, finally home. 

“Missed you,” he says, pressing his face to Louis’ neck and inhaling deeply. Louis laughs against him, stroking a hand down Harry’s back. 

“Missed you too,” he says, turning his head and nosing at Harry’s cheek. Harry grins, tilts his head up and kisses him. God, kissing him is the best thing. Not that they’ve really done much more than kissing, but still. It’s so good to feel Louis under him, against him, to feel his soft mouth and sharp teeth. Harry could kiss him for hours. He’s definitely tried. 

“None of that, none of that,” Louis says, pulling away. His mouth has gone pink, cheeks flushed. “I’ve got stuff to unload. Presents to distribute.” 

Harry’s eyebrows quirk up. “Presents?” 

Louis looks at him a moment, smiling fondly. “Yeah, presents,” he says, and laughs. “You gonna help me or what?” 

—

After what feels like six hours — but really is probably just one — Harry follows Louis into the bedroom, closing the door behind himself and leaning against it. He feels nervous suddenly, though he doesn’t know why. They’re soulmates. That’s pretty much set. Though, just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean it always works out. There’s no guarantee. 

“Hey,” Louis says, pulling him from his thoughts. He’s leaning against his desk across the room, brow furrowed. “None of that. C’mere.” 

Relief washing through him, Harry crosses the room, wrapping himself around Louis the best he can. Louis lets him, tilts his head so Harry’s can fit on his shoulder and rests his hands in the small of Harry’s back and holds him. They shouldn’t fit like this — Harry being the giant that he is — but they do. It’s not uncomfortable and there’s no tension and it just feels right. It feels right. 

“I got you something,” Louis says eventually. “You want it?” 

Harry pulls back a little. “Is it your dick?” 

Louis’ gaze darkens, even though he scoffs, annoyed. He pinches Harry’s hip. “Thanks for ruining a potentially romantic moment,” Louis says, pulling away and rifling through one of the bags he’d discarded on the floor. 

Harry laughs and flops on the bed. “Sorry,” he says, but Louis doesn’t look particularly like he believes him. He tosses a box onto Harry’s stomach, smiling serenely when Harry lets out a little _oof_. 

Picking up the box, Harry bites his bottom lip. “I didn’t get you anything,” he says, fiddling with the lid. Louis shrugs as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Open it.” 

Harry holds his gaze for a moment before he lifts the lid off, inhaling softly when he sees the ring inside. It’s silver with a white stone in the middle, something that looks slightly like opal, but not quite. It’s heavy when he picks it up, his thumb tracing over the wolf that’s been carved into the side. 

“Louis,” Harry says, but Louis looks away. 

“It’s moonstone,” he says, rubbing a hand over his chin. “And I know the wolf is dumb, but I just thought you might like it.” 

“I love it,” Harry says, sitting up, sliding it onto his hand. He leans into Louis, kissing the side of his head and then his cheek until he turns and Harry can kiss him on the mouth. “Thank you,” he says, kissing Louis again, humming out a pleased sound when Louis kisses him back. 

Harry kisses him harder, cupping the back of his head and holding him in place, ignoring the awkward position and the twinge in his lower back. Louis turns, though, as if he can sense it, and crawls up onto his lap, taking Harry’s face into his hands and kissing him again. Harry’s hands find his hips and he tugs him closer, until they’re pressed together and Louis’ got a hand wound in Harry’s hair, keeping him in place and pressing his thumb right behind Harry’s ear. Harry gasps in a breath, hands tightening on Louis’ hips and making a pathetic sound. 

“Not to be, like, presumptuous,” Louis says, sounding breathless, “but could we like — God, I want you so badly, Harry, please.” 

“Fuck,” Harry replies, and laughs. “Please. We can — please, please fuck me,” he says, fingertips sneaking up Louis’ shirt to touch his warm skin. Louis shivers against him and then sits back. 

“You’re sure?” he says, like Harry’s not half-hard under him. “I just gave you that gift, I don’t want you to feel like you have — ”

Harry surges forward to kiss him, just to shut him up. “Trust me,” he says, voice gone low as his hands snake up under Louis’ shirt again, pushing it up as he goes. “None of this is out of obligation.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Louis says, and lets him tug the shirt off. The jeans are a bit trickier — Louis has to stand up to get his off, and then Harry gets stuck in his own and needs his help to tug them off. Louis does it, though, laughing the whole time, the smile on his face making Harry’s chest feel like it might explode. 

He scoots back on the bed as Louis crawls up again, situating himself between Harry’s legs this time, obviously eyeing the bulge in the front of Harry’s briefs. He tries not to smirk, but it feels good to be wanted and it feels especially good to be wanted by Louis. 

Louis runs a hand over Harry’s thigh, stopping at his hip, fingertip tracing the waistband of Harry’s pants. “How d’you want it?” He looks up at him, half-smiling. “Doggie style?” 

Harry laughs loudly, clapping a hand over his mouth and falling back on the bed. Louis moves so he’s hovering over him, more snug between his legs. He laughs down at him and Harry stares back, letting the warmth in his chest bubble over, spilling out until he can feel it in the tips of his fingers and toes. 

“I love you,” he says, leaning up again. “In case you didn’t know.” 

Louis’ smile turns soft. “I love you too,” he murmurs, and kisses him hard. From there it turns urgent, turns into Harry panting against Louis’ mouth, hooking a leg around his hips and trying to grind into him, whining pathetically when Louis pulls away to get their pants off. He leans over Harry for a moment, rifling through a drawer next to his head, dropping them on the bed beside him. 

“You’re sure you don’t want it the other way?” Louis asks, tone teasing as he slicks up his fingers. 

Harry laughs and it turns into a moan as Louis presses a finger in, murmuring sweet things to him, kissing his belly and his hips until he can press another in, and another. By the time he withdraws them to put the condom on, Harry’s a sweaty mess, essentially useless as he lays against the pillows. 

Louis leans over him, kissing him sweetly as he lines up and pushes in, the stretch of it making Harry gasp, arch his back. 

“You good?” Louis asks, stroking down Harry’s hip, adjusting his leg. “Alright?” 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, nodding. “So good. Please, move. Please.” 

Louis nods and pulls back, thrusting back in slowly, his face looking like he’s savoring it. That’s all well and good, but Harry’s been waiting for this. He doesn’t really want slow and meaningful right now. Or, he does, he supposes, but also Louis could go a bit faster. 

Harry shifts, moving so he can meet Louis’ thrusts with his own, moaning when Louis gets the message and goes harder, leaning into him more, making the bed rock with the movement of his hips. Harry wants to kiss him but he can’t, the angle’s too awkward and his legs are in the way, but then Louis shifts something, changes the angle of his hips and hits Harry’s sweet spot, making him groan and grab at any part of Louis he can reach. 

“Right there,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as Louis fucks in just right again, holding back a whine. “Fuck, Louis. Right there.” 

“I’ve got you,” Louis says, his strong hands holding Harry in place as he fucks him. Harry doesn’t know if it’s a soulmate thing or just a ‘Louis is amazing at sex’ thing, but he gets the angle right almost every thrust, and when he reaches down to wrap a hand around Harry’s dick it’s too much, and Harry comes with a loud gasp before he really even knows what’s happening. 

He feels Louis come right after, as he’s still shivering through the aftershocks. He winces as Louis pulls out and knows he should get something to clean up with, but he’s boneless, feels too good to even consider moving. 

Turns out he doesn’t really need to worry about it anyway, because Louis grabs some tissues and wipes him up. It’s half-hearted, and Harry still has come on his stomach that he knows is going to dry all sticky and disgusting, but it’s the thought that counts. And it counts for a lot. 

He rolls over once he feels Louis climb back in bed, letting out a pleased hum as Louis spoons up behind him, throwing an arm over his waist and kissing the back of his neck. 

“Love you,” Louis says on a sigh, and Harry smiles into the pillow. 

“Love you too,” he responds, and closes his eyes, feeling settled and content.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm here](http://jessimond.tumblr.com) if you need me. and [here's](http://jessimond.tumblr.com/post/140507747845/night-changes-by-colourexplosion-jessimond-for) a tumblr post for you to reblog.
> 
> thanks for reading!!!


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